Coldhearted
by The Nothing
Summary: NEW CHAPTER! PLEASE R&R! When a young mutant loses her mother to a sinister conspiracy, her latent ice powers explode out of control in a quest for vengeance.
1. CRUEL INTENTIONS

CRUEL INTENTIONS

Sarah Gibbons look up from her desk near the double-door entrance to Mr. McKannen's office and swallowed, not for the first time. The Feds trusted her on this. Peoples' livelihoods were depending on her. However, Sarah knew that Mr. McKannen was a hard man. Few knew how hard; the CEO and President of McKannen Industries had a poker face like a stone block, and a physique to match. Power, influence, money, and physically powerful; all the ingredients for a very dangerous man.

Sarah had been working here for years, since before Mr. McKannen's father had died. She'd been his personal secretary and assistant then, and retained that position after his son had inherited the business. But the gulf between the kindly old Howard McKannen and his son Douglas were as vast as day and night. Howard McKannen had had a huge heart, an open mind and a kindly way with anyone and everyone, mutant or not. Douglas McKannen showed no such compassion; if anything, Sarah privately believed the new CEO was frightened by the thought of mutants, who had fantastic powers that all his cold, hard cash could not match. Sarah also prudently kept this opinion to herself. As before, Douglas McKannen was not to be trifled with, and Sarah had a daughter to provide for.

_But not much longer_, Sarah thought with a smile, her first all day. _Tracy's almost all grown up. Graduation's just a few more correspondence courses away_. The thought stopped her typing fingers cold.

Thinking about the correspondence courses brought Sarah's mind back to the problem at hand. For Sarah had long suspected that Tracy was a mutant, even beyond the rare case of albinism that she'd been born with. Beneath her snowy white skin and rosy pink eyes, the promise of power lurked within Tracy Gibbons. Sarah hoped that her cooperation with the FBI would ensure her daughter's future.

_It will certainly ensure the future of three thousand other mutants working for this company_, Sarah thought grimly, typing viciously. Mr. McKannen the elder had meant it when he had first proclaimed McKannen Industries to be an equal-opportunity employer; mutants all over the Manhattan area had flocked to his business. He'd interviewed each of them personally, setting each with a job that fit their unique abilities for the benefit of the company. Profits had virtually skyrocketed. When the old man had finally passed on, things looked bleak for the mutant workers. There were already rumors that Mr. McKannen the younger was going to oust all mutant workers for good. After all, McKannen Industries had far exceeded their projections for the last ten years running. Surely there was a surplus of funds. The company wouldn't miss three thousand workers out of thirty thousand.

_It's my job to make sure that doesn't happen_, Sarah thought determinedly. _The FBI has insiders, but they needed someone close enough to Mr. McKannen to get what they need_. Sarah gulped again. _I guess I'm just too good-natured to let three thousand people go jobless this close to Christmas_. She nearly jumped out of her chair as the door to Mr. McKannen's office swung open.

"Ms. Gibbons," Douglas McKannen said pleasantly, "Would you mind straightening up the office, filing those new projection reports and making me a fresh pot of coffee?" His face went from forbidding to full-on charmer in a flat half-second, complete with a dazzling white smile. Sarah might have been impressed or even flattered if her heart wasn't in her throat.

"Yes, Mr. McKannen, right away," she replied, sounding almost normal. McKannen nodded absently and headed down the hall towards the elevator. _Jerk_, she thought to his back.

This was the chance Sarah needed. She put away the documents she'd been typing, slipped her purse over her shoulder, and headed into the lion's den.

_"We need files that will prove his intentions without a doubt,"_ the FBI man had told her_, "Bank accounts, the mutant employee profiles, anything. Try to find out if there've been any large transactions to foreign companies or customers while you're at it."_

Mr. McKannen's office was huge. It probably took up the better part of the entire floor, and had a panoramic view of New York City, thirty stories below. The view only added to Sarah's nerves; she was petrified of heights. Sarah steeled herself and went to McKannen's desk. The reports he'd mentioned were still lying on his desk. Sarah flipped through them quickly and confirmed that actual profits had exceeded the projections by 43 this last year. Again. Sarah tucked the reports back into the folder and set them aside. Rifling quickly through the desk, she found nothing else of major importance.

_I guess this is it. Here goes nothing_.

Sarah took the mouse to his computer and wiggled it slightly. The dark screen brightened, showing that McKannen had, as always, locked out his private account. _We'll just see about that_.

Sarah opened her purse and extracted a black CD-ROM that the FBI agent had given her. _"It's a password breaker,"_ he'd explained, _"If his computer's any good, it'll automatically read anything you stick in the drive, lock or no lock. The program on the disk will decipher the password and open the account. Remember, get in quick, get as much as you can, then get out again. We don't know what kind of security McKannen's got rigged to his system."_

Sarah slipped the disk into the drive and waited. The little orange light flickered to life and the drive whirred as is went to work. A window opened up over the screen-lock.

Loading…

Connected…

Negotiating with Host…

Deciphering…

Password Decrypted

"Yes," Sarah whispered under her breath. With the account open, Sarah leafed through McKannen's hard drive. There were dozens of folders. Sarah copied one labeled 'Transaction Register, 2002', another labeled 'Potential Losses, 2003', and one labeled 'Future Prospects, 2004-2024'. For good measure, she also copied design specs, patents, tax files from the last ten years, and even plans for products that were in the experimental and development stages. She was about to log off and leave, when an idea formed. (My computer has a list of files that I opened recently. I wonder if his has the same thing?)

Clicking on the Start Menu, Sarah went to the bar labeled Documents. It was right there, identical to Sarah's computer. She was disappointed, though, because there was only one file listed, in a folder entitled 'Quad-Zero X'. _THAT sounds interesting_.

Sarah clicked on the folder and waited expectantly. She cursed quietly but with feeling as another password window opened up. (Very interesting.) Once again the disk drive whirred, and Lock Breaker began working it's magic.

Negotiating with Host…

Deciphering…

Password Decrypted

Sarah let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and scanned the opened file. After just a few seconds, she went white and shivered as a chill crawled up her spine. "Jesus," she whispered, horrified. Her stomach abruptly flipped-flopped and tied itself into a sickening knot. Sarah suddenly knew that more was at stake her than her job, or even the jobs of the three thousand mutants that she was hacking her boss's computer for. This could mean her life, her daughter's life, and not just three thousand mutants, but also _every_ mutant in the entire United States! _Oh…my…God! I've got to get out of here! Out of town! I need to get to Tracy—now!_

Sarah broke into cold sweat as she copied the file folder onto the disk, and then slid the disk out of the drive. Her finger stopped above the mouse as she prepared to log off.

_No – wait. Can't panic. I've got to think this through carefully. I need insurance_.

Sarah purloined another CD-ROM disk from McKannen's desk, and slipped it into the drive. Then she copied every folder that would fit into it, making sure that the file folder 'Quad-Zero X' went into it first. The little bar opened up and began to crawl its way across the screen, with maddening slowness.

"Come on," Sarah snarled. Her breath came faster and shallower, her pulse began to race. Every little nerve in her body wanted to run from this office, this building, this city, and flee with her daughter to somewhere safe—somewhere very far away. Her senses went into overdrive. Sarah felt like she was sitting on a time bomb. _Which would actually be safer for all involved,_ she thought wryly, _which is a lot more than anyone would even chance to guess_.

The little bar beeped the end of its journey and Sarah slipped the disk out of the drive. She put the first one in her purse, and then considered the second one, finally tucking it into her bra, where no self-respecting security guard would feel up. She logged out carefully, making sure to lock it again, as Douglas had left it.

She flew through the office to straighten things up, put away documents with a little more speed than care, and grabbed her purse. She walked—slowly—back out the door and sat back down at her computer. She didn't look back.

She didn't see the blinking red light on the back of the little Web-Cam mounted on top of McKannen's computer monitor.

After closing out all of her currently open files, Sarah clicked on her Internet Explorer. She logged open her e-mail, and as her cyber-handle Tragedy discreetly contacted her agent, whose cyber-handle (at least presently) was SpookyMulder

_Chee—zeeYet appropriate, in a kind of 'conspiracy-theory' sorta way_. Sarah sighed, as she waited for the chat room to open.

SpookyMulder: Is it done? Did it work? Did you get anything?

Tragedy: Yes, everything worked. I've got it. Now help me get rid of it. Where do you want to meet?

SpookyMulder: Be in front of Carnegie Hall tomorrow at exactly 1300. Look for a guy with a goatee, a silver New England Patriots jacket, and a red beanie, leaning against the wall. He'll be holding a lotto ticket. Wear a pair of blue jeans, a black sweater, sunglasses, and that little 'X' pin I gave you. Got all that?

Tragedy: Carnegie Hall, 1300, goatee, silver NE Patriots jacket & red beanie leaning against the wall. Lotto ticket. Wear blue jeans, black sweater, sunglasses, X-pin. Easy. Got it.

SpookyMulder: When you see your man, walk over and ask, 'Feeling lucky?' Your man will respond, 'The odds are only three thousand to one.' If he doesn't say those EXACT words, run like hell to the nearest uniform, OK?

Tragedy: Feeling lucky. Three thousand to one. 'K.

SpookyMulder: Your Uncle Sam will love you for this.

Tragedy: Well Merry X-mas to him. Bye.

Sarah logged out of the chat room as McKannen returned.

"Is everything all right?" he said in exactly the same artificially friendly tone.

"Yes, Mr. McKannen." Sarah hid behind an equally artificial smile, but nearly lost it as she suddenly remembered. _Oh shit! The coffee!_

"Uhm…I'm very sorry, Mr. McKannen, but we're out of coffee grounds. I'll have Supply Department bring some up right away."

"That's quite all right," he responded, sounding generous, "You should probably go home now, Ms. Gibbons. You look, ah, quite tired. A bit stressed, perhaps. Go relax for a while. Take tomorrow off, if you wish. Oh, and tell your daughter Merry Christmas for me." Although his tone had changed not a bit, Sarah knew a dismissal when she heard one.

_Sadistic, arrogant, bigoted bastard. I hope you have 'Merry Christmas' in a federal prison with an inmate who's bigger than you! I hope you rot in Hell. _

"I will, Mr. McKannen. Merry Christmas to you too." Sarah hoped he wouldn't notice the trickle of sweat that ran down the back of her scalp. On the contrary, McKannen suddenly looked quite pleased with himself, straightened his tie and jacket, and then turned toward his office.

"Good night, Ms. Gibbons."

"Good night, Mr. McKannen."

Douglas McKannen, corporate CEO, multi-millionaire businessman never even saw the dark little smile that plain, ordinary Sarah Gibbons, professional secretary, single mom, bestowed on the man she was going to ruin.


	2. PREMONITION

Premonition

Tracy Gibbons sat at her computer, typing furiously. The faster she got this assignment done, the sooner she'd be able to kick back and relax. Usually her correspondence courses offered no trouble at all. Her mother swore up and down that Tracy was a near-genius; Tracy nearly always whisked straight through whatever assignment the college sent in record time. After all, the night was still young, and Tracy did not want to miss any of it.

"There," she said with satisfaction. With a last click on the Save button, then the Send button, this night's work was complete. (And not a moment too soon,) Tracy thought happily. The sound of the apartment's front door unlocking heralded her mother's return from work. With her albinism, Tracy's delicate, snowy white skin simply could not bear prolonged exposure to the sun, nor could her rose-pink eyes handle the its blinding radiance; as a result, she slept the day away while her mother was at work. This also kept her from going to a public school during the day; Sarah would absolutely not let Tracy go to school at night in this town. Hence, the correspondence courses that could be completed at night, in the safety of their own little home. When Mum returned from work after nightfall, they sat down and ate dinner (for Tracy's mom), and breakfast (for Tracy) together. 

Tracy hastily shut down the computer and bolted from her darkened bedroom. Sweeping down the hall and swinging around the corner, Tracy narrowly avoided colliding with her mother as Sarah stepped into the living room.

"Hi Mum! How was work today?" Tracy asked as she wrapped Sarah in a fierce hug. Sarah shivered violently once, then calmed. 

"Hello, sweetie. Work was just fine; Mr. McKannen says 'Merry Christmas'." Sarah tried her best to put on a normal, happy front for her daughter, but the urgency of the evidence she carried pressed on the back of her mind, and it showed. (I've got to get us out of here,) she thought worriedly, (but how? Where can we go?) An idea formed then, almost blinding in it's intensity. (Wait a minute! I got it! We could go down and stay by the waterfront with Kathy!) The thought of spending time with her old college roommate suddenly warmed Sarah all the way up from her toes, thawing out a place in her heart that had been frozen with fear all afternoon. Back in college, Sarah Gibbons and Katherine Wister had been the best of friends, virtually inseparable. There was nothing they'd kept from each other. Not even the fact that Katherine was a mutant herself. Surely, if there was anyone who could help Sarah, it'd be Kathy!   

"What's wrong, Mum?" Tracy asked, sensing hesitation. 

"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart. Listen, I want you to start packing some clothes for a few days. We're going down to the waterfront to see Aunt Kathy." Sarah put on her biggest, brightest smile as Tracy squeaked with delight and began bouncing up and down. 

'Aunt Kathy' had never before failed to spoil Tracy rotten with free boat rides and 'R'-rated movies. Going there was just as good, if not better, than going to the theater (Tracy's other favorite place). Without another word, Tracy bounded back down the short hallway to grab a bag and begin stuffing it with clothes. Sarah smiled to see Tracy so full of joy, but the smile faded slightly when she remembered the reason they were going, and the danger that would likely follow them. 

Just two hours later, with bags packed and ready, Sarah and Tracy drove out into the eternal battlefield of Manhattan traffic. The trip to Katherine's waterfront flat took nearly three hours for all that it was just across the island. Tracy stared out the window dreamily, anticipating all kinds of fun at their arrival. Sarah kept glancing at the rear-view mirror, sweating a few times when one car or another followed them for a couple of blocks. However, her fears were unfounded, and when they entered the waterfront district, traffic all but vanished.

Kathy's place was a small, but comfy little house on the banks of the Hudson River, with it's own dock, to accommodate Kathy's boat. Her sport fishing business was modest, but paid enough for rent and a comfortable living. Being on the waterfront also gave Kathy the opportunity to exercise her power: Sarah had never seen Katherine Wister bested underwater. To all outward appearances a perfectly normal woman, Kathy could out-swim a dolphin, and hold her breath for longer, as well. Adding to the 'dolphin-woman' image was Kathy's ability to echolocate, using natural sonar to 'see' underwater. Contact with water increased Kathy's physical strength as well, enabling her to bend solid iron bars while underwater. 

Sarah hadn't seen Kathy for months, but that hardly mattered; she was nearly family. As Sarah and Tracy drove down the lane, Kathy's house appeared to be completely darkened. (Please be home, please be home, please be home,) Sarah thought to herself, a silent mantra to keep her from screaming in the mounting tension. She nearly cried with relief when they pulled into the driveway and saw the living room light on. 

The instant that Sarah put the car into 'park' and killed the engine, Tracy was out the door and moving. She ran up to the front door calling, "Aunt Kathy! Aunt Kathy, it's us!" With all the excitement running though her, Tracy could feel the vibrations of someone moving inside the house, coming towards the front door. Sarah was just starting up the walk when Kathy opened the door. Her eyes widened in surprise, but before she could open her mouth to say anything, Tracy happily threw her arms around Kathy's middle, squeezing her in a hug. 

"Whoa, hi there! Long-time-no-see! Didn't expect you 'round this neighborhood!" Kathy's smile nearly took in her ears, but her voice was underscored with obvious surprise and concern. Her eyes bugged out slightly and she made a little sound in her throat when Tracy squeezed her a second time. "Hey! You're gonna break my ribs like that!" Kathy shivered as an unexpectedly savage chill ran through her. Then she wrapped her own arms around Tracy and lifted her off her feet, swinging her around in a circle. 

Sarah watched as she approached, with dread weighing down every step. She really didn't want to bring trouble into this woman's life, the gal she'd spent her wild years running around with, very nearly her own sister. But Sarah had no other choice. Kathy was a mutant; she had to know about this. She'd know whom to contact.  

"Hiya, Kath," Sarah said softly as she stepped up onto the porch. She eyed her friend as Kathy set Tracy down. Kathy met Sarah's quiet gaze with a look of barely contained curiosity. She hadn't changed much over the years; the same fiery red hair swept back into a no-nonsense ponytail, challenging green eyes, countless freckles, and slender but solid swimmer's build. All the physical labor she'd done in the past had helped her keep the same figure she'd had in college from swimming team. By contrast, Kathy noticed that something was obviously upsetting Sarah; gone now was her usual appearance of cool professionalism and control. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, a few stray wisps of hair, freed from Sarah's bun, had fallen across her eyes, she fidgeted with her fingers, and her normally steady brown eyes glanced around nervously—things that never before had happened in all the time that Kathy had known Sarah Gibbons. Something had rattled her, and rattled her hard.

"C'mere, girl," Kathy said, and pulled Sarah into a hug of her own. She smelled faintly of fish, and the sea. It took every last scrap of determination and willpower that Sarah had to keep from crying onto Kathy's shoulder in front of her daughter. After a moment, Kathy pulled back and asked, "What's going on? No—wait, come inside first. I'll make coffee or something." Kathy helped Sarah and Tracy carry their things inside. Ten minutes later, Kathy and Sarah began hashing out the problem while Tracy played in the backyard with Kathy's dog, Gunny. 

"I'm in deep water this time, Kath. I don't know if I'm going to pull through or not." Sarah felt cold again, through and through. She barely noticed the heat of the coffee mug she clutched with white knuckles. Kathy listened soberly from an old recliner, holding her own mug. She arched an eyebrow and gave Sarah a 'well-get-on-with-it' look. Sarah took a deep breath and began to pour out her story.

"A few days ago, a man from the FBI came to our apartment, asking questions about my work. Asked if I was satisfied working for the new boss. I told him that I'd preferred working for his father, for more reasons than one. He told me that the Bureau had been watching Douglas McKannen for a while, because his name popped up more than a few times during the Mutant Riots. So far, they don't have anything that they can press charges on." Sarah paused.

"They wanted you to find something for them." Kathy made it a statement. Sarah closed her eyes, wishing that she'd refused. 

"Yes," she whispered.

"From the look of things, I'm betting you found something, all right. Bit off more than you could chew, huh?" Kathy tried to lighten the mood, but the humor fell flat. 

"You don't know the half of it." Sarah said in ominous tones. She went on to outline the files she'd seen about Project Quad-Zero X. After the first thirty seconds, Kathy was outraged. After the next two minutes, she went white beneath her freckles, horrified. 

"Oh…my…GAWD! HOLY SHIT! We gotta DO somethin' about this! When are you meetin' this spook? D'you still have the disk?" Fear, anger and excitement caused Kathy's accent to thicken. Sarah might have been amused, but for the circumstances.

"Tomorrow," she replied, "In front of Carnegie Hall. And yes, I have it right here."

"That's a little bit public, ain't it? Out in the open, like that? What if McKannen finds out?"

"It'll be alright." (I hope.) "If anything happens, I can just scream that there's a fire in Carnegie Hall. That should get some attention." Sarah's tone projected far more confidence than she felt right now. 

"But what if you can't get away? You were right, you know. This is seriously deep. This is way past you, or even me. If they were after me, I'd just take an extended little swim in the bay. But what are YOU gonna do?" Now came the really hard part.

"I can't leave Tracy at the apartment. If McKannen does find out, they'd look there first. I was hoping you could keep an eye on her. I'll be safe enough with the FBI." Sarah's expression twisted in desperation. "Please, Kathy, help me." 

"Of course I'll help you! But don't think for a minute that I'm gonna be able to do this by myself. I got friends in the mutant community that'll help, once I tell 'em about this!" Kathy fairly glowed with determination. "I don't suppose you've heard of the Xavier Institute, have you?" Sarah's heart began to unfreeze. The iron hand around her lungs loosened. Anyone with any connection to the mutant community had heard of that place.  

"Yes, I've heard of it. Didn't really think about it until--" Sarah cut herself off, but she could stop from glancing out the window to the backyard, where Tracy still played with Gunny. Kathy's sea-green eyes grew wide.

"You don't mean—?" 

"I don't know. All I have right now are suspicions. Albinism was a fairly common mutation, even before people started flying through the air—" Sarah shot Kathy a look, "—or breathing water." 

"Hey!" 

"I mean it. I haven't mentioned this to anyone, Kathy. I don't even think that Tracy notices either." Sarah continued to stare out the window.

"Notices what?" Kathy prompted.

"Kathy, I didn't have to use the air conditioner all summer. Know why? Because wherever Tracy goes, the temperature drops. Her skin is cold too; I can't remember the last time I hugged her and didn't notice. It's like hugging a block of ice. If she didn't have a pulse and a reflection, I'd swear she were a vampire!" That got Kathy's attention. Her expression was equal parts excitement, shock, fear, and disbelief. Slowly, her face relaxed and became pensive.

"You're right, actually. When she hugged me earlier, it was like she sucked the warmth right outta me. And I've been sitting inside all night." She put her hand to her head, then made a throwing-away gesture, as though she could just pull the thought out of her mind and discard it. "At any rate, the people at the Xavier Institute will be able to tell. They'll be able to help her too, if she…is a…" 

"Right. There's another thing I have to ask." Kathy's head tilted, ever so slightly. Question. Sarah pulled out the disk she'd tucked away, and laid it out on the coffee table next to the one the Feds had given her. Kathy gave a low whistle that reminded Sarah fiercely of a dolphin.

"Whoa, a copy? You go girl! Lemme guess: you want me to hide this, right?" Sarah chuckled at the enthusiasm in Kathy's voice. She sounded just like the cat who'd stolen the cream. (Or the dolphin who got the fish,) Sarah thought suddenly. 

"Yes. I'm taking the original to the Feds. I want you to keep this one hidden for me. If anything happens, turn it in to the police, and then to the press if you can. Get as much publicity as you can. Don't let McKannen sweep it under the rug. Once this stuff gets out, get Tracy on the boat and go on a long ride on the bay."  Something in her tone set off several alarms in Kathy's head.

"Hold on a second, kiddo. You sound like you've got this all planned out already. Like you're not comin' back." Kathy felt her ears getting hot. "Don't talk like it's all over already! Don't ever, ever do that!" Sarah met her look squarely, like her old self, for just an instant. She stood and began to pace around the living room. 

"I'm just trying to be realistic about this, Katherine. This is not a game. This is for **real**. People like me and you—especiallylike you—do not matter to Douglas McKannen. Right now, he has all the advantages. It'd be stupid, suicidal, to underestimate him." Kathy growled but did not reply. "Promise me you'll do this, Kathy. Promise me, right now."

"I swear, Sarah. I swear I'll do it."  


	3. AWAKENING

Awakening

Sarah was far too nerved up to drink the rest of her coffee, which had gone quite cold. Kathy suggested that she get some sleep. Knowing Tracy's particular hours, Kathy just let her play with Gunny until the old retriever got tired. While Sarah slept, Kathy tried to make sense of what Sarah had told her concerning Tracy's slumbering power. There was very little doubt (in Kathy's mind) that Tracy was, in fact, a mutant. The problem for now was coming up with an exercise that would trigger it. 

Kathy smiled in memory of her own 'awakening'. Mr. Grimes, her high school swim instructor, had trained her well, had trained Olympic contenders before. However, he'd been totally unprepared to see his newest pupil leap into the pool and calmly proceed to blast her way through every Olympic swim record ever set. Kathy had swum back and forth across the pool so fast that Grimes forgot to keep an eye on the timer. When the thought finally penetrated his astonishment, he discovered that this scrawny-looking redhead had been swimming the entire length of the pool—underwater—for almost ten minutes. He called her off, and told her to hold her breath in the deep end while he timed her. The end-of-class bell rang before she came up. "I've never seen anyone ever hold their breath like that!" he'd said in amazement. "But teacher, I wasn't holding my breath," she replied. Then she departed for the girl's locker room, leaving him gaping like a stranded fish. 

Unpleasant as it was, Kathy pulled her attention back to the present. Sarah had asked her to hide the copy of the files she'd made. (No problem there,) Kathy thought, (no, the problem is making sure that no one will accidentally come across them. I have the perfect place for it. If Sarah is right about Tracy, then it'll be even better.) 

Hours later, just before dawn, Tracy came inside. Kathy, wired from the caffeine, greeted her with a wan smile.  

"So, white stuff, is my old flop still the best?" Kathy asked. Tracy grinned impishly. 

"You bet!"

Kathy stood up and took the copy disk off the coffee table. She stared at it for a few seconds, then looked up at Tracy, who was watching with no small amount of curiosity.

"Wait here for a second," Kathy said without inflection. Tracy nodded and sat down on the sofa.

Kathy headed for the kitchen and flipped on the light. She was halfway to the cabinet before the thing came on. She opened the cabinet and withdrew a plastic Tupperware container just large enough to set the disk in. She closed the lid and squeezed until it shut with a satisfying snap. When she returned to the living room, Tracy was stifling a yawn. 

"Just a little while longer, then you can go to sleep. Your Mum asked me to do something for her. I may need your help."

Tracy had never heard Aunt Kathy use such a serious, flat tone of voice before. "What is it?" she asked cautiously. That drew a slight chuckle.

"Nothing too sinister, sweetie. I just need you to help me hide this little bugger," Kathy said, brandishing the Tupperware, "Come on down to the cellar with me." Kathy turned and started walking away. Tracy followed, uneasily. 

The door to the cellar was right next to the door that led to the garage, but Tracy had never been down there. She wasn't afraid of the dark, because even the smallest amount of light that seeped under the door would more than light up the room to her photosensitive eyes. Yet the fact that there was something in Aunt Kathy's house that she'd never seen before filled her with a nervous kind of excitement. (I wonder what's down there that's so important?) Tracy wondered, as her imagination ran wild.

Actually, the cellar turned out to be pretty boring. Aside from the furnace, the water heater, and a barred grate in the wall, the place was empty. Tracy reined in her disappointment, but tried to make the best of things.

"Aunt Kathy, what's that grate in the wall for? I thought the waterfront was that way." 

"It is, honey, but don't worry. It's just an old storm drain that got stuck in my basement when they built the house. It's sealed shut," Kathy replied absently. She ran her fingers in the dust on the floor until she found a straight groove. "Aha," she said softly. Digging her fingers in, Kathy managed to pull up a single square block of stone. Beneath it was a small recess. Kathy motioned for Tracy to come over and see. Tracy watched, not really understanding as Kathy set the plastic container in the hole, which was full of muddy water. The stone square was returned to its resting spot, nearly invisible in the gray cement floor.

"Aunt Kathy, what are you doing? What's this about?" Tracy asked nervously.

"It's just a little experiment, Tracy. I think that the disk is pretty well hidden right now, but I want to find out about something your Mum told me. If she's wrong, no big deal, but if she's right…" Kathy let the sentence trail out and shrugged. Tracy relaxed a fraction. "All right, honey, this is what I want you to do. Come down here and put your hands over this stone. That's right. Now, you know there's water under the ground here, right? Close your eyes and think about the ground, about the water. It's not cold enough outside to be frozen yet, so there's still a little bit of heat left in it. Imagine the heat in the ground, in the water. Imagine pulling that heat into your hands. Try to feel it running up into you, through you."      

At Kathy's cool instruction, Tracy did not feel the slightest bit silly. She actually felt cold inside, something she'd never really noticed before. Now that she thought about it, she was certain she was really, actually frozen solid through. Strangely, the feeling didn't bother her at all. She felt the rough ground beneath her hand, felt the water gurgling under that. She tilted her head back, took a deep breath, concentrating, then reached out through her hand with her mind and pulled.

For a moment, nothing happened. Kathy bit back a sigh of frustration. She was just about ready to call Tracy off, but the look on her face stopped Kathy short before she could say anything. Tracy's eyes rolled back up into her head, her eyelids fluttering. 

A subtle ripple, a barely discernable wave, swept through the ground under Kathy's house. It started well outside the house and contracted in a diminishing circle. Kathy, with her special rapport for the water, felt it roll over her and gasped. When she let it out, a long white plume of vapor streamed from her lips. The soil under the foundation groaned. Kathy felt a curious numbness, a spreading stillness growing there. Tracy was oblivious to everything around her. Her breath came in rapid gulps, but unlike Kathy, no steam came out. Kathy's breathing also sped up—when she saw the first delicate ice crystals blossom beneath Tracy's white fingers. A crackling sound rose from the floor as the cement split into spidery lines. The water table under the house seeped up through the cracks and froze to create a thin sheet of clear ice over the basement floor. 

Kathy's teeth started to chatter. She jerked her hand up from the floor, hissing between her teeth. Her fingers were blue, and rimed with frost. Tracy wasn't stopping. 

"Tracy, honey, that's enough. Tracy? Tracy, stop! TRACY!" Kathy's voice rose in panic.

The white frost rolling out from under Tracy's splayed fingers started to crawl towards her. Kathy backed away towards the staircase, calling Tracy's name. When she reached the stairs, Kathy tore her gaze from the encroaching frost long enough to spare a glance at Tracy. What she saw froze her blood, and had nothing to do with the plunging temperature in her basement. 

Tracy's body was now shedding a fine mist. He body was wreathed in frost, making her look like an ice sculpture—or a frozen corpse. Her chest was still expanding and contracting rapidly, proving her life yet, but as Kathy watched, her entire body flickered. For a scant half second, Kathy could actually see right through Tracy to the stones on the other side of the basement, where the ice had begun to climb up the wall.

(Sorry, honey,) Kathy thought, (but I've gotta stop this.) Filling her lungs with the freezing air, Kathy let out a gunshot CRACK!! using her sonar. The sound wave rippled across the ice, kicking up clouds of frost and vapor as it streaked along. The wave struck Tracy from her knees and sent her sliding over the ice. She slid to a stop against the wall and did not move. (OHNO!)

Kathy had to walk carefully across the ice to keep from slipping, with sick worry urging her to run instead. When Kathy touched two shaking fingers to Tracy's white throat, they found a slow, but steady pulse. (Thank God. I thought I killed her!) Kathy slid her arms under Tracy's arms and legs, and stood up with painful care. It wouldn't do to drop Tracy now, and possibly hurt herself on this treacherous ice. (Poor baby. This wipes away any doubts. Tracy's definitely got the power. The control will come with a little practice. And I know just the teachers to call.) 

Kathy carried Tracy upstairs to her own bedroom and set her down gently on the bed. The frost that had covered her body was gone now, without a trace to prove it had been there. Kathy suspected that it might be years before the iceberg under her foundation melted away. She'd need a pickaxe if she wanted to get to that disk now. (Or maybe a jackhammer. Yeeps. Scary stuff.) Kathy suppressed a shudder as she covered the window with a thick blanket.

Returning to the living room, Kathy fumbled with the thermostat controller. Once the heat was set to a comfortable 80 degrees, she flopped bonelessly onto the sofa. Gunny came huffing up and nuzzled her hand. "Hey, boy." Kathy fondled his ears absently for a few minutes and let her mind empty out. "Be careful the next time you play with Tracy, or you could wind up as a pup-cicle."  Gunny whined a negative. "Yeah, you're right. She's too sweet on you to do something like that." Kathy sighed as the last of the caffeine and adrenaline seeped away—

Sunlight streaming through the living room window woke her. Gunny was in the kitchen, crunching determinedly away at his bowl of chow. (Sarah fed him. Bless her heart. After last night, I needed a good sleep.) Kathy sat up and stretched prodigiously. After popping a few joints, she headed for the kitchen. Sarah was already there, cooking breakfast. It smelled wonderful. 

"Now I remember why I miss you so much," Kathy said teasingly. Sarah twisted her lips wryly and jerked her head towards the window and the waterfront beyond.

"You can always go take a swim and catch your breakfast, you know." Sarah huffed.

"Hmph! House mouse," Kathy needled.

"Fish-stick!" Sarah barbed back. Then, suddenly, "You're the best friend I've ever had." 

Kathy swallowed against the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat. Tears threatened to spill over. She could see that Sarah was in the same way. They hugged each other fiercely, scrambled eggs forgotten. When they pulled apart, Sarah gave a little cry and flipped the eggs over. They were brown on the bottom. "Whoops!" 

Kathy laughed and sat down at the little table. She might not get another chance to tell Sarah about last night. Thinking about that didn't help matters. Kathy clamped down on the urge to spill the beans and resolved that it could wait until after breakfast. Sarah hadn't lost her touch in the time they'd spent apart. Aside from the slightly browned eggs, everything else turned out well. Sarah and Kathy chatted about old times and did a little catching up on new times while they ate. When they finished, coffee cups once again found their way into both sets of hands.   

"Sarah?" Kathy asked.

"Hmm?" Sarah replied from inside her coffee mug. 

"There's something I want to show you in the basement." 

"It's not a dead body, is it?" 

"I'm serious, Sarah."

"Okay, okay. Let's just finish our coffee first, hmm?" 

"Alright." 

After another comfortable half hour, Kathy convinced Sarah to come into the basement with her. Sarah's first clue was the sudden frigid draft that swirled around her ankles when Kathy opened the door. Stepping carefully down the stairs, Kathy reached the bottom first and grimly flipped the light switch on. Sarah stood, dumbfounded, unable to move for a moment. 

A six-inch layer of frosted white ice covered the basement floor. The heat from the furnace caused a thin cloud of steam, which drifted lazily to the floor to cool into fog. Icicles hung like glittering daggers from the ceiling, silently sprinkling powdery white snow. In that snow, in the center of the room, Sarah saw two small handprints in the ice. 

"Tracy did this?" Sarah whispered hoarsely.

"In a nutshell, yes." Kathy's reply was short, but unperturbed. 

"Good grief! She's asleep upstairs, right? Is she okay?" Wonderment soured into worry.

"Yeah, she's fine, just exhausted. Once she started going, she couldn't stop."

"What did you do?" Kathy flinched at the steel in Sarah's voice.

"She might've hurt herself, and possibly us, too. I had to knock her out of it. With my sonic gunshot." Kathy flinched again as Sarah tried to turn her to ashes with her glare. "Really! She's okay! She just needs a little rest, is all!" 

"I guess so. Damn. I was afraid of this." Sarah's steel façade suddenly crumpled. "So. It's true. She's a mutant, then."

"Hey, don't sound so glum! It's not so bad, really. Look, if you're worried about her, I can always look after her to make sure she stays out of trouble."

"You sure?" 

"Aw, c'mon. We went over this last night, remember? I promised I'd help you and I will."  

The two friends stood in the basement for a while longer, thinking silent questions to the indoor winter-wonderland Tracy had inadvertently spilled forth. The gently falling snow and hanging icicles had no answers for them. 


	4. CONNECTION

Connections

"You've had this comin' for a long time, Drake, an' now you're gonna get it." 

"Just shut up and take your best shot, Logan."

"You asked for it, bub." With a quiet 'snick', two eight-inch, razor-edged adamantium claws flicked out of Logan's left hand_._

Placing a steady palm on the smooth green felt, Logan set the cue between the blades and took careful aim. The chalked tip slid back and forth a few times. Just as Logan pulled back to shoot, the phone in the corner of the lounge rang, shattering in the silence. Logan started in surprise, and the last claw on his left hand leapt out. The stick went in at the wrong angle and connected to the cue ball with a SNAP! The ball rolled and spun wildly around the table before finally falling into a corner pocket, failing to touch any other ball on the table. Logan growled in the telephone's direction. 

"Scratch on the eight ball, Logan. My game." Bobby pretended to wipe his fingernails on his leather jacket, inspected them casually, and blew gently across the tips. Apparently satisfied, Bobby extended his hand to Logan, palm up. "That'll be ten bucks, Mr. CuisinArt." 'Snick'. The three claws on Logan's right hand came out. Bobby yanked his hand back.

"I want a rematch, kid. Answer the damn phone." Bobby fairly danced away to get out of Logan's reach and picked up the squalling receiver. Logan broke the cue over one knee.

"Xavier Institute, Bobby Drake speaking," Bobby said cheerfully, as Logan glowered.

"Ah…good morning, Mr. Drake. My name is Katherine Wister; I own a private sport-fishing business off the Manhattan waterfront." The voice on the other end was polite, but the seriousness in her tone could not be ignored. 

"What can I do for you, Ms. Wister?" 

"I'm calling on behalf of a friend of mine, about two things," Ms. Wister paused on the other end. "First, her daughter's a mutant. I am too, if you want to know. My friend wants to know if you can help Tracy at your Institute. She's sixteen years old, and almost has a college degree through an accredited online correspondence course." 

"Wow! I doubt we'll be able to top that academically, but we might be able to teach her a few things about using her powers." Bobby's eyebrows furrowed for a second. "Say, what are, er, what did you say her name was? Tracy? What's her mutation, exactly?"

There was another pause on the line as Wister did some thinking.

"Well, she was born an albino." Wister teased.

"That's not what I meant." Wister laughed at the wryness in Bobby's voice. She chuckled, and explained.

"Tracy makes cold. No, wait, scratch that. Her whole body is like a living heat sink; she absorbs heat energy. I think the more heat she absorbs, the bigger her 'heat sink' gets, and the colder the area around her becomes. Ice forms on stuff when it gets cold enough. I know, because I saw her do it firsthand. Coached her into it, as a matter of fact! She covered my basement floor with six inches of solid ice in a few seconds. Damn near covered me too." Katherine Wister waited on the other end of the telephone line while Bobby Drake pumped his fist and grinned like an idiot. 

(YESSS! Finally! Someone with powers like mine! I'll actually be able to teach someone something useful, for a change!)  

"How long ago did she manifest her powers?" Bobby asked when he'd regained his composure.

"I don't know, actually. I think she's been doing it for longer than anyone guessed. At first, she was doing it subconsciously; she absorbed the ambient heat from anywhere she went, and it got colder. Later, whenever she touched somebody, they'd get a real deep chill. Last night was the first time she'd done it on purpose." 

"If you don't mind my asking, what are your abilities, Ms. Wister?" He could almost hear her slow grin. 

"Come out here into the water and I'll show you," she said coyly. "And call me Kathy." 

"Only if you call me Bobby." 

"Alright, Bobby. There's just one other thing. Last night, when Tracy froze all the water underneath my house, she absorbed a lot of heat from the ground. I—I have a special relationship with water. Blood is water, Bobby. I know that her body was well below the temperature needed to freeze a human's blood solid. But—she just—changed. I could see right through her! I—I think she became some kind of vapor." Bobby considered this for a moment.

"It's possible—likely, as a matter of fact. You can get gases to way lower temperatures than water. It's probably her body's way of staying so cold without freezing solid. Y'know, like living nitrogen." 

"Aren't you just the expert? And what exactly is your power?" Bobby's grin came back.

"I'll give you a hint: My friends call me 'Iceman'." Kathy gave a (facetious) sigh of exasperation while Bobby laughed. When he finished, he felt ready to get the conversation over with so he could meet these women.

"You said earlier that there were two things you wanted to talk to me about. I think we've gone over the first pretty thoroughly; what's the second?" Bobby asked, then he felt sorry he had. All the laughter drained out of Kathy's voice. She was quiet for a moment.

"I know no one's tapped my phones, but what about yours? Is it safe to talk on this line?" Kathy's voice, now low, had a cautious, calculating edge to it. Bobby caught on immediately.

"Yes, it's safe. Are you having problems with the government?"

"Not yet. Listen Bobby, this woman's been my closest friend since college. Now she's gotten herself on the wrong side of harm's way. She's—she's an FBI informant working inside McKannen Industries. The Feds asked her to dig up some dirt on the new CEO; they think he's up to something." 

"Whoa. THE McKannen Industries? The guys who hire mutants right on the spot? Were they right?" 

"You don't know the half of it. Look, Bobby, I don't want to talk about this any more over the phone, here, let me give you my address, you can come over here, then we can talk." Bobby snatched up a pencil and tore a piece of paper off the scorecard he and Logan had been using. He started to scribble madly as Kathy dictated the address, and the directions how to get there.

"I'm afraid of what might happen if Sarah's been discovered; there's no telling what McKannen would do. I'm also afraid of what might happen if they find out that Sarah came here. I can get away no problem, but Tracy's little 'episode' last night pretty much left her out of it. They'd get her for sure." Worry had crept into Kathy's voice. Bobby could tell that she was more accustomed to being confident and in control. "And then, there's the disk that Sarah wanted me to hide—Gunny? Gunny, what are you barking at? HEY GUNNY! You stop that right—!" Click. Dial tone.   

"Kathy? Hello, Kathy?" (Oh shit.) "LOGAN!We gotta get moving, now!" 


	5. PLANS UNRAVELED

Plans Unraveled

Sarah drove towards Carnegie Hall with an odd sort of numbness. Surely, she should be feeling any number of emotions, fear, worry and possibly excitement, to name a few. But as she drove on, not even the perpetual Manhattan traffic succeeded in bringing a rise from her. She'd become like a puppet, or a machine, intent on a singular objective. Likewise, her mind refused to think of any particular subject; she drove almost on a subconscious level.  On and on she drove, it seemed, until she purposely drove passed Carnegie Hall. No one stood waiting, but countless busy people strode by, many returning to work from lunch. Sarah drove for another block then parked in a pay lot whose recent tenants had gone.

A quick glance at her watch reminded her of the time, but still failed to elicit any sort of reaction. 12: 52 PM. Sarah took up her purse and left the car. Dressed as she was, in the proscribed blue jeans, black sweater, sunglasses and the tiny X-shaped pin at her throat, Sarah felt almost invisible, totally non-remarkable against the throng of bodies. Behind the dark tinted lenses, Sarah's eyes flicked back and forth across the crowd, seeking the silver jacket she knew to look for. She didn't see it until she turned the corner of Carnegie Hall itself.

He stood there, perfectly at ease, to all outward appearances. A tallish man with big, square shoulders leaned back into the wall on the other side of the main entrance. He was as equally non-descript as Sarah, but his clothes announced his identity to her as loudly as any siren. Silver New England Patriots jacket, bright red knit beanie, neatly trimmed goatee. (It's him,) Sarah realized, the first coherent thought to cross her mind since she left Kathy's. An old-fashioned clock-post across the street BONGED the hour. The FBI man, incognito, reached into his jacket pocket and produced a paper ticket-stub, the letters LOTTO clearly visible to all written across it. Sarah started walking towards him, as though in a dream.

In those few seconds, time slowed down. Everything faded and blended into a muted background buzz. All that mattered was getting rid of the damnable disk, getting back to Tracy. The disk felt like a brick within Sarah's purse, a dead weight on her mind, soul, and conscience. The FBI man's eyes came up in slow motion and locked with Sarah's. They stared at each other across the diminishing distance, magnetically attracted. When they were just a few paces away, Sarah heard a voice—her own—saying the words she'd been instructed to.

"Feeling lucky?" The words were blurred to Sarah, muffled by her suddenly thundering heart. The man's voice, a pleasant and forgettable tenor, cut through the fog of Sarah's mind like a knife—casual, but subtly sharp and pointed. 

"The odds are only three thousand to one." Spoken without inflection, the words were like a computer confirming a bank transaction. With that, he held out his hand, "offering" her the lotto ticket. Sarah reached into her purse without looking, palmed the disk, and "accepted" the ticket, sliding it into his hand while taking the ticket. Immediately, time snapped back into full swing, all the sights and sounds of busy Manhattan returning to sharp focus. Sarah blinked and the tension poured out of her. 

(There. Nothing to it. All done.) Maybe Sarah had expected something more…dramatic. The deed was done, it seemed, and quite anticlimactic, too. She had completed her end of the bargain and intended to quietly disappear into anonymity. Sarah blew out a long breath, and actually smiled at the FBI man, tucking the ticket into her pants pocket. "Good luck," she said, turning away to leave.

"There may be a problem, Ms. Gibbons." The agent's voice stayed casual on the surface, but carried an undertone of danger that turned Sarah's blood to ice in her veins. She stopped in her tracks, but didn't turn back. "What …problem?" She asked, struggling to keep her voice as steady and level as his. She nearly succeeded.

"We think McKannen may already know about this, Ms. Gibbons. If he does, both you and your daughter's lives are in danger." When Sarah turned back, the agent's flinty brown eyes melted into a look dark with worry and concern. She was glad of the sunglasses; Sarah was certain her own eyes contained nothing but terror. 

"What are you going to do?" Sarah whispered. The agent leaned a bit closer, to be heard.

"We want to take you and your daughter to a safehouse until this is overwith, Ms. Gibbons. Don't worry, we won't let anything happen to you or her. I promise." His voice rose slightly in entreaty. "Trust us," he whispered. 

For an instant that seemed like eternity, Sarah's mind, empty since this morning, boiled with chaos and confusion. (He knows,) she thought, (He knows! He'll try to kill us! OhmyGod what am I going to _do?!_) Sarah's gaze met the agent's again. She considered him next. (The Feds have kept up their end of this too,) Sarah thought, her mind slowing to a semblance of normalcy, (They'll protect us. They still need us for witnesses. Not even Douglas McKannen can get us if the FBI hides us.)

"All right." Sarah's voice remained steady this time. The agent nodded, then walked to the edge of the street. Reaching into his other coat pocket, the agent withdrew a pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. He lit it with a disposable lighter, took a long pull then blew all the smoke out in one long puff. A black van caddy-corner from Carnegie Hall revved to life. It joined traffic, made a quick U-turn and pulled up to the sidewalk where the agent stood, causing several drivers to honk in consternation. The agent flicked the cigarette into the road under the van and pulled the sliding door open. "Get in," He said, jerking his head towards the open door. Sarah complied. They drove aimlessly for a while. 

(We need to get Tracy, and maybe even Kathy too,) Sarah thought after a time.

 "We need to get my daughter," she said, voicing her thought, "She's staying with a friend down by the waterfront—"

"We know, Ms. Gibbons." 

"Huh?" Sarah blanked out in mid-thought. (That's impossible. I didn't tell them—) 

"We know about your daughter and Ms. Wister, Sarah," the man said, a sly smile plying his face. Sarah's eyes widened in complete shock when the man unzipped his jacket and produced a standard issue-type 9mm pistol. Slowly, deliberately, he trained the barrel on her head. The muzzle looked big enough for Sarah to walk into. "We've known for a while now." 

"No," Sarah's throat constricted; an iron hand clamped itself around her heart. Then she knew her mistake. This was no FBI agent. The van stopped. Sarah's vision instinctively left the gun for a second to see where they'd arrived at. The iron hand tightened its grip. McKannen Industries Main Office Building. 

"Yes. Mr. McKannen wants to have a word with you, Ms. Gibbons." His cold, mocking tone made her feel like a little girl being called to face a school principal. The false agent lowered the gun from her head, but the muzzle remained pointed at her. He slipped it into a pocket, its point plainly visible. "Don't decide to get brave, little girl," the man said in frozen tones, "If I have to, I _will_ shoot you in public."  The van door opened.

Sarah concluded that the short, rotund man standing outside the car must be the driver. His round glasses sat on a squashed nose, magnifying his beady eyes. He wore a simple round cap over his greasy hair, and his clothes were worn and shabby. The lingering smell of gasoline and smoke clung to him. He gave her a nasty little smile but said nothing as the armed man nodded towards the door. Sarah got out. 

The two men marched Sarah up to the main door like a pair of butchers leading a cow to the slaughterhouse. Sarah mentally shied away from the image. The short, smelly one opened the door, and the other followed Sarah through it. They passed the secretary's desk in the lobby. Sarah paused briefly, thinking perhaps to scream for help. The point of the gun nestled gently against the small of her back. A tiny vibration there told her that the hammer had just been cocked. Sarah swallowed the incipient cry for help and continued walking, under the secretary's confused gaze.

Across the lobby, three elevator doors waited. The short man pressed the button for the nearest one. Sarah nearly sobbed when the door opened immediately. She was pushed in, and the tall man's eyes narrowed when she turned. Hand on the concealed gun, eyes on Sarah, the tall man reached out with his other hand to press the button for the top floor. Sarah's hammering heart skipped a beat. The McKannen house, built directly on top of the office building! (Into the lion's den…)

A few employees sprang for the open door, but the look in the tall man's eyes stopped them. Annoyed, he punched the 'doors closed' button. As the elevator began to rise, the short man leaned uncomfortably against the wall. The tall man joined him a few seconds later, all the while watching Sarah. Sarah pressed her back to the wall, wishing she could melt into it, through it, to escape what she knew must be coming. The short man crossed his arms, revealing his hastily bandaged left hand. 

The fat fingers that protruded from the bandage were blue, almost back at the tips. When he shifted his posture, the bandage slipped back enough for Sarah to see a small, reddened crescent of teeth marks decorating the outer edge of his palm. Sarah gave him a tight smile. When he noticed her staring at his hand, he angrily thrust both of them into his coat pockets. A sullen glare replaced his earlier smug look.

Sarah watched the numbers on the panel over the door ticking away the last moments of her life. She'd lived in Manhattan all her life, lost in the swelling tide of humanity. She'd gone to school, been a track star, gone to college, gotten married, had a family. Her husband had left her when Tracy was born. She got a job working for Howard McKannnen, and for his son after his death. She'd seen the world through young eyes in the sixties, cried through Viet Nam, again through JFK's death, and helped firemen and policemen on September 11, 2001 when the World Trade Centers collapsed in fire and smoke. She'd watched her daughter grow into a beautiful young woman. She tried to help the FBI expose perhaps the greatest act of racial discrimination since the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Now, she would die unknown and unmourned, while mutants the world over would suffer. Silent tears of regret began to flow for all the things Sarah had not done, and would never see. The two men stood in stony silence, uncaring. 

When the numbers on the panel reached 30, the elevator stopped and a bell chimed. The tall man slipped a security access card into a slot in the control panel and rapidly entered a few more numbers. The elevator began slowly rising again, but stopped just one floor above Sarah's office. When the bell chimed again, Sarah's mind likened it to a death knell.    

The two men stood up and led Sarah into the house proper. Sarah had never seen anything like it. The ceiling seemed to go up and up, and everywhere she looked there were precious works of art. A man in the black and white of a professional servant came and led them away with all the emotion and enthusiasm of a robot. Down this hall, left turn, through this door, down this way to the right. When they stopped, they were in front of the most ornately carved door in the entire house. Sarah knew beyond a doubt that this was Douglas McKannen's own room. 

A tingling chill danced across Sarah's shoulders. The touch was gentle, almost tender, teasing. Sarah could almost imagine Death at her shoulder, waiting patiently, silently. 'I'm here,' He was saying voicelessly, 'Your time is almost over.'

The servant knocked twice, and leaned into the door. At some small sound, he turned the knob and revealed the most plush bedroom Sarah had ever seen. Sarah's whole apartment could probably fit into it with room to spare, and that without the walk-in closet and swimming pool-sized bathtub. Belying the opulent luxury before them was the sickening, smothering stench of burned meat. Sarah gagged, nauseated. 

"Please excuse the smell," That voice could only belong to Douglas McKannen, so cold, so condescending, "I'll have my janitor deal with it later." Sarah turned to face him. 

McKannnen stood of to the left, in a large alcove dominated by a much larger desk than the one in his official office, one floor below. McKannen was standing next to a large swiveling chair, which was presently turned toward the huge windows overlooking New York City. One hand rested easily atop the chair's high back; the few strands of wild hair peeking over the top revealed the chair occupied. A thin curl of smoke twisted upwards from the chair's tenant. McKannen turned from the panoramic view and stared at Sarah, as though for the first time. Looking into his eyes revealed nothing. (That damned poker face of his.) 

"Ms. Gibbons," McKannen said after a moment, in a deceptively mild voice, "Let me introduce you to Agent Donovan, FBI." McKannen gave the chair a spin, bringing its occupant into full view. A scream of pure horror warred with hot bile at the back of Sarah's throat. 

The body propped onto McKannen's chair had been charred to a crisp. Its empty, blackened eye sockets and silently screaming mouth poured sour gray smoke. The white shirt it had been wearing was burned through in several places, most notably across the chest. Its skeletal hands were twisted into permanent claws, palms up, below the charred rags that had been sleeves. From his posture, he had obviously been sitting down when he'd been killed.  

The bile at Sarah's throat won out. Stumbling to the wall, Sarah's knees gave. She heaved helplessly onto the expensive wooden floor. McKannen shook his head, grieving for the wooden paneling, the tall man waved a hand under his nose, and the short man smiled broadly, wringing his hands in delight. From somewhere nearby, Sarah heard a high-pitched, malicious chuckle, a scraping, raspy sound not fit for a human throat. 

When Sarah stopped heaving, the tall man reached down and hauled her back to her feet. 

"While we're all getting acquainted, let me introduce you to the rest of my associates," McKannen went on, imperturbably, "The tall fellow there is 'Mr. Michael Vickers', or so he claims. Quite the professional; he came highly recommended. His rather pungent companion is Mr. Stephen 'Smoky' Bertrick, also a recommended professional, although his field is a bit narrower than Mr. Vickers'."  McKannen looked ready to continue, but the man identified as 'Vickers' interjected.

"Is it really necessary to use our names?" he asked bluntly. His look darkened when McKannen dismissed his concern with an indolent wave. McKannen went on almost as though he hadn't been interrupted

"And last, but certainly not least, my new personal assistant, the Gremlin." Sarah did a double-take, confusion written clearly across her face. There was no one else in the office. What was McKannen talking about?

Just then, all the lights in the room flickered, as a brilliant, blinding arc of electricity exploded out of a wall socket to McKannen's left. It leaped into the air above McKannen's desk, sizzling and snapping, where it condensed into a glowing blue-white sphere the size of a basketball. It hung there for a moment then emitted the most horrible sound Sarah had ever heard. The sound of the scratchy, rasping chuckle amplified into fits of insane laughter. Dancing sparks of electricity spun and twisted across its surface. Sarah felt the hair on her neck and arms stand on end.

"Gremlin, if you please," McKannen said impatiently, folding his arms over his chest. The laughter ceased, with a final sizzling giggle that promised slow, agonizing death. It floated down from the desk to hover at McKannen's side, then slowly began to expand into an irregular shape. Spindly arms and gangly legs extended from the sphere, and a triangular head rose from the top. When its feet touched the floor, the glowing blue outline darkened into solid features. Grotesque features.

(Well,) Sarah thought with lunatic hilarity, (he wasn't kidding. The name fits.) The Gremlin looked like nothing so much as the mischievous little critters from the 80's movies, albeit taller. His emaciated body was covered in sickly green hide, sporting discolored patches and scales here and there. The three fingered hands and feet all ended in two-inch long, dirty yellow claws. Wedge-shaped pointed ears stuck straight out from his triangular head. Tiny horns framed his jaw, sharp chin, and slit-pupil yellow eyes. The Gremlin's sadistic sneer revealed his orange, irregular, needle-sharp teeth. Unlike the Gremlins from the movie, this one boasted a full head of bleached white hair, spiked in random directions with an absurd amount of hair gel. Electricity sparked and crackled through it, then jumped and snaked to the dozens of gleaming metal piercings in his ears, eyebrows, lips, nose and tongue. His body fairly buzzed with the sheer amount of power it contained. 

McKannen let Sarah absorb everything she'd just seen for a moment. Then he shook his head, sighing, like a beleaguered parent at the ineffectual efforts of a child. 

"Sarah, Sarah," he said, "I'm really, very disappointed in you. You should have known better than to try and double cross me, especially with the FBI. Have I not proven that I am not, I repeat NOT, to be trifled with?" Sarah was momentarily speechless in the face of such overbearing arrogance.

"How—?" She managed to blurt out.

"—Did I find out about you? Please—" McKannen rolled his eyes, "Don't prove yourself to be a complete idiot. You actually put on quite a convincing performance last night. I forgot briefly that you're a fan of theatre. I might not have even noticed that you'd hacked into my computer, except for one small detail." McKannen bared his teeth slightly; a smile. "My computer's digital camera activates automatically whenever my log-on is open. It records the time spent and saves the video file in a hidden drive for security purposes, which I check every night. Guess what my little eye-spy saw last night? Little Sarah Gibbons, peeking where she shouldn't be!

"Actually, the Gremlin was the one who caught it first. He spends a lot of time in the company network, rewriting files for me. When my security camera activated, he hacked the video feed and saw you shuffling around in my log-on. When you shut it down and logged back on to your own computer, he followed and monitored your little conversation with 'SpookyMulder' here." McKannen patted the blackened corpse sitting in his chair, sending up a small cloud of ash.  

"Afterwards, Gremlin traced your partner's line back to a laptop computer in a rather shabby hotel room. This unfortunate man then experienced a regrettable accident involving a bolt of lightning striking a phone line."

Sarah's lower lip trembled, and her eyes began to water. 

"Such a fitting name, 'Tragedy'," McKannen went on, taunting her, "Poor, insignificant Sarah Gibbons, trying to make a difference in the world. But everything goes horribly wrong. The villain,"—McKannen bowed—"discovered your noble plan, killed your comrade-in-arms,"—McKannen indicated the charred corpse—"sent his own man to take his place,"—a nod towards Vickers—"and then tracked down your daughter and fellow conspirator, Ms. Wister, who, I hear, is also a mutant! How marvelous!" The Gremlin smirked. 

McKannen's words took a moment to sink in. A subtle change came over Sarah Gibbons, gradual at first, then with more clarity. Her head came up, her trembling lip stilled, the tears blinked away. All expression evaporated from her face. McKannen was about to ask her if this meant her surrender, but he was in for a shock. 

"What have you done with my daughter?" Sarah asked, every quiet word forged of cold steel.

McKannen blinked, momentarily taken aback by the menace in Sarah's voice. Then he wanted to laugh at the hilarity of it all. (What nerve! To threaten me in my own home, when I hold every advantage?) McKannen held his poker face.

"Ms. Gibbons, Ms. Wister's name, address, and home phone number are listed on every single vacation request form you've filled out for the last ten years as your secondary contact. It was quite obvious that she'd be the first person you'd go to."

"That's not what I asked, McKannen." Sarah's brown eyes smoked with seething hatred. McKannen's poker face cracked for a second. 

"Ask my associates," McKannen snarled, "I sent those three to fetch them both this morning, but they came back empty-handed. However, I am told"—McKannen shot Smoky a look—"that they put up quite a fight." Smoky squirmed. 

"Hehehehe…fight?" the Gremlin rasped, speaking for the first time. "HehHEHhe! Fight?! No fight! ZAP! BURN! Fried fish-bitch!!" Sarah's momentary strength failed at the Gremlin's choppy narrative. "Snow-White on the bed? Had fun, fun, fun with that one! HAHAHAHA! Ask Smoky-Smoky! Almost became frozen Smoky-sausage! HAHAHAHA!!" 

"Well, there you have it," McKannen stated calmly, while Sarah visibly trembled, "I instructed these men to retrieve your daughter and your friend, but appears that things got somewhat out of hand. My sincerest apologies." 

That was the last straw. Tracy, beautiful, precious Tracy, dead by the hands of these filthy beasts, and this monster had the absolute gall to offer 'sincerest apologies'?!

As physically fit as McKannen was, he was caught totally unprepared. Sarah moved so fast, so suddenly_,_ that she may as well have teleported across the room. One moment she was flanked by Vickers and Smoky, the very next instant she whistled past the Gremlin to McKannen. 

Sarah's open hand lashed out and connected with the side of McKannen's face, fueled by all the helpless fury of a mother whose child is lost. The stinging, whipcrack blow actually spun the dazed McKannen to the floor. She stood over him, fists clenched, tears of rage and grief flowing freely now. She'd have gladly continued her assault, but a bolt of liquid electricity slammed into her, throwing Sarah sideways into the wall. She slid down the wall to the floor and lay still, hands clutching her side, moaning. 

McKannen picked himself up off the floor and put a hand to his face. The skin was beginning to burn. Blood rushed to McKannen's face when he realized that there would be a mark. Sparing a glance in the mirror, McKannen's blood now boiled when he saw Sarah's blazing red handprint, edged in purple, seared into his cheek. A bruise! A muscle worked in McKannen's jaw, and a vein stood out across his temple. 

"Gremlin," he snapped, "Are the documents ready?" 

"Yep."

"The note? The will?"

"Yep."

"Good." McKannen strode towards Sarah's huddled form, his posture broadcasting rage. He reached down with one hand and took a firm hold around Sarah's throat. Lifting her into the air, McKannen turned and carried her, in one hand, to the window. The Gremlin obligingly opened it. Sarah's head was turned just far enough that she could see the tiny figures of people and cars below. Her stomach, now empty, attempted to tie itself into a knot.

"That was not smart, little girl."

"You'll never—" 

"—'Get away with this?' You stupid bitch, I already have! The FBI will get a reply from the 'SpookyMulder' account in a few days declaring the investigation a dead-end and total failure! Your friend Wister is DEAD, and so is your daughter! They were both inside the house when my men torched it." McKannen shook Sarah for emphasis. Her hands, such weapons only a few seconds ago, slapped desperately, futilely at McKannen's thick wrist. She struggled for air. McKannen suddenly brought Sarah's face scant inches away from his own. 

"I have your new 'Last Will and Testament', plus a suicide note, compliments of the Gremlin's forgery skills," he whispered savagely. McKannen force-marched Sarah over to the windowsill, but didn't stop when they reached the edge. He continued until Sarah was leaning backwards out the window, hanging above three hundred feet of empty air. Panic soared inside Sarah's mind.

"There's a lot of danger in this world," McKannen said loudly to be heard over the wind, "muggers, terrorists, disease, global warfare, there are a million things out there that can kill you. So I'm going to do you a big favor, Sarah. I'M GONNA TAKE YOU OUT OF IT!!_"_

McKannen grabbed Sarah's belt with his free hand and hurled her out the window. Her sharp scream of terror lasted a brief instant, and ended abruptly with the sound of tearing cloth and ringing metal. (Too soon. Now what…?) McKannen looked back out the window in irritation. Impossibly, Sarah was hanging on for dear life from an American flag, suspended from a flagpole mounted on the side of the building outside McKannen's own office, one floor below. McKannen chuckled, admiring Sarah's survival instinct. She climbed up the flag and managed to get one leg over the pole.

"Gremlin, will you please kill that woman?"

With a howl of purest glee, the Gremlin leaned out the window. When he spied Sarah climbing up the flag onto the pole, he propped his elbows on the windowsill and cupped his face with both hands. Tilting his head with a playful attitude and a vicious grin, the Gremlin pointed one dirty claw at the metal rod. Lightning arced from his fingertip and wrapped itself around the pole, igniting the flag and throwing Sarah once more from the building. This time her scream lasted a full three seconds, echoing off the surrounding buildings before cutting off sharply. The Gremlin laughed the whole time. 

"Mr. Vickers, please prepare for the press." McKannen said, straightening out his jacket and tie. "Oh, and send in a makeup specialist too."

"Yes Mr. McKannen." 

"Such a tragedy. A pitiful, pathetic Tragedy…" McKannen murmured. 


	6. INTRUDERS

Intruders

"Gunny? Gunny, what are you barking at? HEY GUNNY! You stop that right now!" Kathy yelled at the top of her lungs to make sure the old retriever heard her. Gunny's barking subsided into a growling whine. Kathy huffed and shook her head.

"I'm really sorry about my dog, Bobby," Kathy said into the phone, "He's old, and sometimes he likes to—" 

Kathy stopped short. The phone was dead in her hand. No Bobby, no dial tone, nothing. Silence.

"Oh shit." 

Outside, Gunny resumed barking with renewed fury. Kathy snarled, slamming the phone back onto the cradle. (Great. Just great. First, my dog won't shut up, then my phone konks out on me! What a bummer. That 'Bobby' guy sounded kinda cute, too.)  Kathy sighed and put a hand to her forehead. 

Gunny yelped in pain. The barking stopped abruptly. 

(What?)

"Gunny?" Kathy called. Silence. Kathy's heart raced. Three steps brought her to the kitchen door. Opening it slowly, Kathy stuck her head out and scanned the yard for the retriever. "Gunny, are you all--?" Kathy's breath caught in her throat. 

On the ground near the chain-link fence, Gunny's body lay twitching. His mouth gaped, still showing white fangs, pouring black smoke. Two blackened pits, likewise smoking, had replaced his once brown eyes. His floppy ears were charred, tattered rags. Kathy sucked in a gasp to scream. 

Kathy's scream of denial was overpowered by a thunderclap as a bolt of white lightning struck the screen door. The explosion rocked the house. The door splintered into a million smoking fragments. Kathy was hurled backwards against the wall. Above the ringing in her ears, Kathy heard a screeching laugh, like a dozen hyperactive nails on a blackboard. 

(This is it. They're here for us, for the disk. They won't get it. I'll kill them. They killed my Gunny! I'LL KILL THEM ALL!)

Smoke drifted lazily in the empty doorframe. Through tears of rage, Kathy spotted a lone, hunched figure leaning against a tree near the fence, just steps away from where Gunny lay. Kathy's body thrummed with power, fueled by fury. With a deep breath, Kathy Wister blasted forth her grief in a deafening sonic shockwave. KRAACKOOOOOM!!! 

Every window in the house shattered. The very ground itself rolled up in a shallow wave as Kathy's most powerful sonic blast rocketed across the yard. Billowing clouds of dust jumped into the air, then parted before it. The figure beside the tree yawned. The tree and fence beyond exploded on impact, showering the area with bits of wood and chain links. When the dust cleared, all that was left was the pitifully torn stump. There was no sign of the intruder.  

"Gunny--!" Kathy started out the back door. If it hadn't been for the clouds of smoke and dust, Kathy would never have seen the pencil-thin beam of red light. A soft click sounded like thunder from just a short distance away. Kathy dove back into the door and rolled across the kitchen floor as a hail of large-caliber bullets tore in through the door, window, and wall. They shredded the doorframe and cabinets, and punched quarter sized holes in her refrigerator door. Shattered glass and ceramic rained down, seemingly without end. 

"Aunt Kathy?" Tracy's voice, filled with terror, filtered down the stairs.

"TRACY! GET DOWN!" To her instant shame, Kathy had nearly forgotten Sarah's daughter, asleep upstairs. A thump from the ceiling told Kathy that Tracy had taken her warning to heart. 

"Aunt Kathy, what's going ON?!" came the answering yell. 

"JUST STAY THERE!" Kathy yelled back. She crouched on the kitchen floor, then launched herself through the open doorframe into the living room. Her movement invited another volley of flying lead.

A quick roll to the left brought Kathy around the corner and gave her some cover. She crouched there for a second, her thoughts a frantic jumble. From her position, Kathy could see up the stairs to Tracy's room. The door was ajar, but Kathy did not see Tracy. (Good girl.) 

(I've got to get us out of here!) Kathy thought furiously, vengeance momentarily forgotten. (I need to get Tracy out of here!)  Back to the wall, Kathy slid toward the front door. Through the jagged remains of the living room window, she spotted a black van parked at the end of the driveway. Standing about halfway between the van and the house was a short, round man wearing shabby clothes, a pair of safety goggles, and some sort of backpack. His hands cradled a sort of cone-shaped nozzle, connected to the 'backpack' by a short length of hose. A tiny flare of blue popped into being at the tip. (Not again)

Streams of fire blossomed from the black nozzle. Liquid flame sizzled against the front door, licked through the shattered window, roared against the outside wall. Kathy could hear the short man's cackling laughter. The heat forced her back into the living room. Tracy lay on the floor at the top of the stairs. 

"Aunt Kathy!" There was terror in her rosy eyes. 

"Tracy! Stay there! Don't come--!" 

Every electrical outlet in the living exploded to life, sending out sheets of hot sparks. Kathy dropped to the floor; Tracy screamed. One of the outlets belched forth a globe of sparkling blue electricity. It zipped across the room, sizzling and snapping like a thing gone mad. When it stopped, Kathy felt every hair on her body stand on end. It was looking at her. Everything went white as another lightning bolt thundered through the room. 

Another door collapsed into bits as Kathy's body was blasted through the air. She crashed down the stairs into the basement, blinding, searing pain coursing through every part of her body. She came to a stop in the middle of the basement floor, surrounded by fragments of the broken door, the ice cutting painfully into her back. Her body, toned from countless hours of swimming in the ocean, refused to answer her command to move. (Broken ribs. Burns. Shock. I'm gonna die. They're gonna kill Tracy.) Kathy opened her eyes. Brilliant dazzle-spots danced before them.  

Overhead, the ceiling had been cleared of icicles, fallen loose after the first explosion. The pipes running this way and that thawed somewhat during the night, clearing away the frost that had reamed them. A single drop of water fell from one and struck Kathy between the eyes. Immediately her vision cleared. (The water pipes!)   

Summoning strength born from sheer stubbornness, Kathy sucked in a breath and let forth her sonic blast. The pipes, weakened from ice an explosions, burst into a rain of metal shards and rushing water. The blessed, blessed stuff ran over her, around her, bringing strength and life. Kathy pulled herself to her feet just as a hunched, misshapen monster came down the stairs. With renewed vigor, water swirling around her feet, Kathy nailed him full-on with a blast like a shotgun. The shockwave launched the green scaly thing back up the stairs, screaming. Kathy gave a feral smile. "That's for my dog, you bastard!" Angry voices floated down the stairs.

"Smoky! Getcher lardy-lardy butt in here! Burn-burn-BURN THAT NOISY B-BITCH!" The stench of cordite filled the basement, followed by more cackling laughter. Kathy dropped into the water, which had risen to her calves, just as fresh sheets of fire roared down the stairs. From beneath the water, Kathy watched as the fire crawled over the basement, seeking her flesh. The water boiled. More words came, muffled by the water. They went from murderous mumblings to shouts of startled dismay as a huge cloud of scalding steam backwashed out of the basement in the wake of the flames. 

(They're not gonna fall for that twice. Gotta get outta here. The next one'll be a lightning bolt; water and electricity don't get along.) Kathy's eyes raked across the basement for something, anything that might help her. The furnace, the water heater…the grate! Kathy rushed the iron grill, heedless of the water and floating steam around her. All water was strength. Metal screeched as Kathy tore the round grill from the wall. The gaping hole beyond her led to the waterfront, held back only by a double layer of cemented brick. Footsteps pounded down the stairs.

The short man with the flamethrower had advanced through the steam into the basement. Kathy spun on her heel, aided by the ice underfoot, and hurled the iron grill in a flat spin like a discus. The short guy, more agile than he seemed, jumped back up the stairs as the huge metal projectile crashed into them. Wood groaned and gave way. The bottom half of the stairway collapsed into the rising water. The scant seconds of distraction gave Kathy her chance. A final, booming blast echoed down the tunnel towards the waterfront, followed by the sound of crumbling concrete. Glancing over her shoulder, Kathy glimpsed the scaly face of the lightning-thing at the bottom of the ruined stairs. Electricity danced over its splayed claws, and the rictus of a smile displayed rows of jagged orange teeth and infected piercings. 

"Eat this, Sparky."   

The creature's smug look evaporated with the rushing roar of water. The cold Hudson River burst forth into Kathy's basement. Kathy kicked toward the open tunnel and the freedom of the river beyond. But the lightning mutant would not be denied. With a parting screech, it pummeled the oncoming water with all its electrical fury. The water bucked and seethed, boiling and churning. Outside Kathy's house, yards away down the beach, a huge fountain of white water soared upward into the air. The fountain fell and melted back into the river. Not a ripple marred the water for several minutes. The silence was deafening. 

"AUNT KATHY!" Tracy's scream from the top of the stairs shattered that stillness and reminded the killers of unfinished business. The green scaly mutant snapped its yellow eyes onto Tracy's pink ones. Before Tracy could do more than stand and turn to run, the creature's crackling electricity caught her square in the back. It slammed into her like a molten sledgehammer and sent her spinning down the hall. 

Tracy groaned in pain. Blurry, indistinct shapes came up the stairs. Now there were three of them. Tracy saw the twinkling blue flame of the short man's flamethrower, the glowing, sickly yellow eyes of the electrical mutant, and a taller, squarer outline of another man. The last man carried a gun, the biggest gun Tracy had ever seen. It was probably as long as Tracy was tall, and looked to weigh as much as her at least. 

"Well, well, looky what we have here." That wheedling, oily voice could not have come from the tall man or the mutant. The blue flame went out with a loud POP. "He told us that Gibbons woman had a kid, but I didn't expect her to be so—pretty." The short man knelt down beside Tracy and ran a greasy hand through her hair. 

"Remember the mission, Smoky." That voice, flat and cold as stone, could only belong to the tall one with the gun. "We were paid to do a job. Finish it."

"Ah, lay off a sec, Mike. Such a pretty girl. Such a waste." 

"Whatever." The tall man turned away, and the greenish gargoyle-looking thing giggled like a bag of nails rattling. "Fun-fun-fun!" was his rejoinder. 

Smoky dropped his extinguished flamethrower to the floor and started running his hands over Tracy's body. He squeezed and pinched, his weight pinning Tracy to the floor. Panic rose in Tracy's throat. The heat from Smoky's body was smothering her. She found the strength to struggle, and began to scream again. Smoky slapped her, but the screaming did not abate. Finally he clapped a hand over Tracy's mouth. "Shut up you little—"

Smoky's next words were cut off in a scream of his own as Tracy bit down hard. The sound of Tracy's heartbeat drowned out Smoky's scream from her ears. For a split instant, all there was in Tracy's universe was that heartbeat, and the liquid warmth that poured into her mouth. The warmth! The HEAT! 

(PULL!)

Smoky's screams redoubled and shattered the next two octaves as Tracy's power sucked the living warmth from his body through his hand. The fingers went white, then blue, and finally purple. He surged up and began to thrash around, flailing the girl like a vicious dog that refused to let go. When Smoky's knees buckled, they both went down. Smoky's shrieks of agony dwindled to a wheezing gurgle. Tracy opened her eyes in time to see the butt of the big man's gun descending. Then all was darkness. Tracy struggled inside to keep a grip on the world. 

Smoky knelt in the hallway, clutching his bleeding, frostbitten hand. Ice frosted his glasses, and ran from the corner of his mouth. 

"Idiot. That's what happens when you try to fuck a mutant." Contempt and ridicule crept into Mike's stony voice. The Gremlin growled a warning. 

"Watch it, squishy." Mike shot the mutant a look of frozen steel. He checked the side of the magazine thrusting out from the bottom of his gun. Plenty left. Mike yanked the slide back and let it slam home again with a loud cha-CHACK! An empty case ejected. He stooped to pick it up, slid the casing into a pocket, and calmly extended his middle finger to the Gremlin. The Gremlin's eyes narrowed but he said nothing. 

"Hey, Smoky, when you're done whining, set this place up and finish the job." With that, Mike turned and walked back down the stairs. The Gremlin looked like he wanted to put a lightning bolt into Mike's back, but simply shrugged and followed, leaving Smoky to his work. Tracy gave a final sigh and released her last hold on her world. 

After several minutes of gasping for air and warmth, Smoky stood, shakily. With a savage yank, Smoky tore a long strip of cloth from Tracy's nightgown and wound it around his injured hand. He glared at Tracy's body and delivered a few brutal kicks. Satisfied that she wouldn't wake up, Smoky carefully, carefully dragged her back to the bed she'd obviously been sleeping in and dumped her into it. Taking up his beloved flamethrower, Smoky considered the unconscious girl. Duty warred with smoldering hatred. In the end, Smoky just let her lie. After all, when the whole house came down, she'd be just as dead, and there'd be no damning evidence. 

Mike waited in the van while Smoky set up the house. The Gremlin leaned on a light post nearby. A few trips to the Wister woman's boathouse provided a lovely store of plastic gasoline cans, their pressure release tabs open. Smoky set these in the garage, after sloshing a trail from the nearest electrical outlet. Wiping his hands, Smoky walked back through the house out the front door. He gave the Gremlin a jaunty thumbs-up. 

The Gremlin chuckled cruelly and laid a single claw against the metal pole. Raw electricity raced through the line, shattering the light bulb overhead. Once again glittering white sparks burst from every outlet in the house. The gas cans in the garage sizzled, hissed, then—ignited. The booming explosion was music, the skyward-rolling fireball most satisfying. 

Smoky returned to the van. Mike quit the front seat and slid into the back. 

"Hey! What'r'ya doin'?" 

"I'm getting changed. We've got thirty minutes to be in front of Carnegie Hall. Start driving." Mike's tone brooked no argument. Smoky hopped into the front seat, grumbling.    

"Damned, fucking arrogant, mercenary, assassin bastard," Smoky mumbled. His quiet stream of obscenities wasn't meant to carry, but Mike was no ordinary hired hit man. The muzzle of a pistol snuggled against Smoky's skull, behind his right ear. A tiny click thundered into that ear. Smoky whimpered and nearly wet his pants.

"Don't you forget it either, you pyromaniacal piss-ant. Now, DRIVE." 


	7. AFTERMATH

AFTERMATH

(Now would be damn good time to have the Blackbird,) Bobby thought as he streaked down the road on a souped-up motorcycle. (If I didn't care who saw me using my powers, I'd just make a highway of my own.) The call from Kathy's place had been just under half an hour ago, but he and Logan were still fighting the Manhattan traffic, weaving between cars, cutting corners over sidewalks, taking alleyway shortcuts. Generally, Professor Xavier disapproved of any flagrant law breaking, but this was definitely an emergency. Bobby and Logan were just leaving the metropolitan area and entering the more sparsely populated waterfront districts when Logan decelerated and stopped in the middle of the road. Bobby pulled up beside him.

"What is it, Logan?"

Logan took a deep breath through his nose then blew it out again. His eyes narrowed.

"Smoke." 

"Christ," Bobby swore, "Let's GO!" Rubber squealed and smoked and Bobby tore away with Logan in hot pursuit.

Following Kathy's directions, they arrived just minutes later, greeted by a grim tableau. Fire engines, police vehicles and an ambulance were parked outside of what was left of Katherine Wister's home, now a blackened shell. Charred beams and crumbling corners of roof stretched starkly into the afternoon sky. Fire fighters used long handled rakes to sift through the ashes, policemen with rolled up sleeves helped to shift aside fallen beams. A group of confused firemen stood nearby, still manning a fire hose; they looked like they didn't know what they should be doing. 

(That's odd,) Bobby thought numbly, looking them over, (usually the guys with the hoses are covered in soot and ashes. These guys are squeaky clean.) One of the firefighters near the fire truck noticed them watching and started walking their direction.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" The guy had to be a veteran, at least. His voice was gruff, hoarse from repeated exposure to the smoke of countless fires; a few small burn scars and some gray hair peeked out from beneath his helmet. His friendly but gravelly query asked without saying 'Why are you here?' Bobby shut off the bike and dismounted. Logan followed suit. 

"Maybe. My name is Robert Drake, and this is Logan. We work for the Xavier Institution. We got a call about half an hour from this address, from a Miss Katherine Wister." 

"Well, this IS the right place," the fireman confirmed gravely. 

Bobby's look went to the house. "Is she-?"

"-In there? 'Fraid not. We just got done goin' that ash pile. There's nothing left."

"Find anyone? Survivors?" 

The firefighter looked down and shook his head. 

"Did you find anything? Anything at all?" 

"Yes, as a matter of fact," the guy sighed. His head turned and Bobby followed his gaze towards the ambulance. A pair of coroners were pulling a white sheet over a gurney. Bobby covered his face with a hand. Logan remained impassive and vaguely menacing; his eyes darted back and forth and his nostrils flared several times. 

"You guys got an ID on the victim?" Bobby asked after a moment. 

"Yeah, her name's Gibbons. Tracy Gibbons: five-foot-nine albino, sixteen years old, home-schooled, with a correspondence degree. We checked both of their files once we got a positive ID. S'funny, each of their names was on the other's file as a secondary contact. Apparently, the girl's mother and Ms. Wister were good friends." (I'm gonna be sick,) Bobby thought.

"Ya sure ya didn't find anything else?" Logan said. The firefighter met his look and shook his head again. "Ya mind if we just take a look around?" 

"Naw, go ahead. Just stay out of our way and let us know if you find anything." The veteran tipped his helmet and walked away. Bobby turned to Logan.

"Take that look around, I'm going to check the body." Logan nodded sharply, then turned to stalk around the grounds.

(Damn. What the HELL happened here?! Was it an accident? Or was someone trying to keep Wister and that kid from talking?) 

Bobby shook his head and rubbed his temples. After a minute or so, he worked up the nerve to approach the coroners, still busy around the gurney and its shrouded occupant. One of them held a white wrist while checking his watch. He shook his head at his colleague and the two began (or resumed, possibly) a spirited debate. 

"I'm telling you, it's just not possible! The time table is all wrong!"

"Well how else do you explain this temperature? I know MY instruments aren't faulty. There's no denying the reading! Look! There it is, plain as day!"

"All I'm saying is that when the call came in, witnesses placed the girl AND her mother at the house THIS MORNING! The mother left around eleven; she wouldn't have left her daughter with someone she didn't trust! Besides, they found in the middle of it! Think, man think!" At the second coroner's glare, the first added, "Did those guys find anything that could be identified as pieces of a meat freezer? I don't THINK so! So how could she do it?"

"It's my—OUR job—to be scientific," the second coroner snapped, "and MY scientific data states that this body, at forty degrees Fahrenheit, has been dead for the last two days." The first coroner turned purple and looked ready to explode when the second cut him off. "DEAD, for TWO DAYS, by extreme hypothermia," he insisted. He kicked the wheel brake into the unlocked position and wheeled the gurney into the ambulance by himself. Meanwhile, the first coroner stewed. 

"Excuse me," Bobby said, approaching cautiously, "Is there something going on?" The coroner spun and looked at Bobby with surprise. He relaxed and ran a hand through his hair. 

"Yeah, you could say that." 

"How so?"

"Well, for starters," the coroner said, "the fire was reported just under a half hour ago. There's absolutely no way the fire could be out already.  We just GOT here, for Chrissakes! When we pulled up, those firefighters over there had all their gear out and ready to go, but there was no fire! Well, obviously there WAS a fire here, but look! Those ashes are stone cold. There wasn't even any smoke coming from them. It's just impossible! A fire that size should be a smoldering pile of red-hot coals for HOURS! 

"Then, there's that body that they recovered for us. More weird shit. She's cold as a Popsicle and perfectly untouched, straight from where the heart of that fire should have been. That body ought to be a pile of ashes inside another pile of ashes. Instead, she looks like she fell asleep inside a meat locker. My coworker insists that she froze to death two days ago, and the firefighters are saying that she croaked from smoke inhalation. Either which way, she's DOA; no breathing, no pulse. Even better, a neighbor down the beach aways—the one who made the call—said that he saw an albino girl playing with Wister's dog this morning before sun-up. It just doesn't make sense." Bobby mulled this over for a moment.

"You said Wister had a dog? Has anyone seen it?" 

"Nope, just what's left of the kennel out back."   

"Thanks." 

Bobby stuck his hands in his pockets and trudged around the back of the house to look for Logan, muttering obscenities. (Damn, blasted, frickin'—) CRUNCH. (Huh? What the—?) Looking down, Bobby saw that the grass in the back yard was dead, wilted by— 

(Jesus!) Bobby knelt and put a hand to the earth. It was cold; REALLY cold. With his special talent for ice, Bobby "Iceman" Drake sensed several tons of it beneath the frozen earth. It extended from under the foundation, like an upturned hemisphere, centered in the basement. (Crap! Wister wasn't kidding. That kid has—had, DAMN it—a lot of power. But why the basement? Why not outside?) Bobby was still kneeling in the grass when Logan approached and said his name. Bobby ignored him for a second and started sputtering in amazement.     

"Logan, you're not gonna believe this! There must be an ICEBERG under this house! Wister said the girl did this on her FIRST TRY with her powers!" 

"Can it, Drake. The girl's dead. You need to see this." Logan's voice offered many things: irritation, impatience (and maybe a grudge for losing that game of pool), but this time it also held something else. Compassion. Confused, Bobby stood and followed Logan for about a hundred yards from the house. 

"Logan, what are we—"

"Shut up for a minute. Just listen ta me. Look," Logan pointed at a spot a few yards away. When Bobby looked, he bit back the sarcastic retort he'd prepared. Logan had discovered Kathy's dog. 

"Gunny," Bobby whispered. The dog's body was still fresh, but his head was ruined. His charred ears had already attracted a small cloud of flies. They buzzed in and out of his gaping mouth and empty eye sockets. Bobby swallowed back nausea.

"What happened to him? How did you find him? And for the love of little mutants, WHY is he so important?" 

Logan snapped a glare at Bobby. His upper lip curled up. 

"Somebody killed him. I scented the body from the house. He's important 'cause he's telling me HOW the killers killed him and set that fire back there," Logan growled. Bobby blinked. 

"Huh?" 

"His brain's cooked. That's what I smelled. See those ears? Whoever the killer is, he's got three fingers on each hand, and some hefty electrical current. Ya heard how the firefighters think the fire started? Electrical fire in the garage. Somethin's wrong though. The smell comin' from the garage ain't gasoline, it's JP-5." 

Bobby stared at him blankly for a few seconds. 

"Diesel fuel, for the boat. Hard to ignite, but once you get it going, there ain't no stoppin' it." 

"Then why would Wister keep it in the garage?"

"She didn't. The trail starts from the boat shack by the pier then heads towards the house. Recent too." Logan's gaze burned into Bobby's. "Somebody torched the house, someone who knew what they were doin'. I jus' can't figure out how the fire went out. They're right, ya know. There shouldn't be anything left."   

Bobby looked at the dead dog, then back to the house. (All right. No more questions, we have a winner. Someone tried to kill Kathy and Tracy.) Sigh. (Looks like they got Tracy. No sign of Kathy, though. Maybe she got away?) Bobby began to pace. (If she got away, she could be miles away; how are we—?) Bobby stopped and smacked his forehead with a palm. Of course! (How ELSE do you find a mutant in hiding?) 

"C'mon Logan. We need the Professor to fire up Cerebro." 

As the two X-men walked away, a soft, mournful whistling echoed across the Hudson River. Bobby didn't hear it for his enthusiastic stride to the motorcycle. Logan paused and looked out across the river. The afternoon sun turned the water to liquid gold, blinding to look at. Logan thought he caught a glimpse of a dolphin slipping beneath the waves. 

"Naaah."   


	8. UNHALLOWED GROUND

UNHALLOWED GROUND

Bobby stopped concentrating on the ice sculpture in front of him and bit off a sigh of purest frustration. Wiping a hand across his face, he looked across his quarters. Dozens of similar sculptures returned his stares, each one depicting a woman with long flowing hair, arms outstretched, their expressions locked in frozen entreaty. Bobby ground his teeth; his hands clenched into fists of their own accord. A burst of irrational anger swept through him. The ice statue before him cracked and crumbled into dozens of unrecognizable chunks. 

[Really, Bobby, you need to control yourself a little better. The students, particularly the empaths, are beginning to complain.] Professor Xavier's voice drifted through Bobby's mind, at once calming, but carrying a definite warning.

(I'm sorry, Professor, but it's been three days. It's never taken this long to locate ANYTHING with Cerebro before!) Bobby thought in return, knowing that Xavier could 'hear' him. He began to pace.

[Please, have patience. I've already scanned the entire island and the surrounding area twice. I WILL find her. But we're getting off the subject. Bobby, I know that this case is causing a higher level of anxiety than normal for you. Why?] That stopped Bobby in his tracks. He knew the Professor was right, and that he'd know if Bobby told him anything less than the complete truth. For a moment, he stood still, gathering his thoughts. 

(I guess it's because, well, in all my time here at the mansion, with the X-men, I've never met another mutant with the same power as mine. When I talked with Kathy on the phone, I was sure I'd found my chance.) Bobby looked down at the floor. When he looked up, his eyes blazed with fresh anger. (I WANTED TO TEACH HER! I wanted to show her all the things that she could do! I wanted to be like you and Jean! You guys get to teach the students all the cool things they can do with their powers. What do I get? Every other week I get the chance to freeze some idiot like the Blob or Avalanche or Black Tom Cassidy. I—I guess I wanted a break from all that craziness. I wanted to be a role model for a while, y'know?) Bobby's expression twisted. (Then there's the business of that Gibbons woman. You heard that bastard McKannen on the television, didn't you? "So tragic, yadda, yadda, such a tragic loss, blah-blah-blah." Suicide, my ass! He killed her, and I want to know why so I can nail him!)

The Professor was silent in Bobby's mind, but Bobby could still feel his presence, like a sort of background noise. It was Xavier's turn to think for a minute. A bubble of confusion surfaced. [Bobby, those ice sculptures—are those intended to be Ms. Wister? You said she had similar powers to your own?] 

(No, Professor. These—I, uh—I never really saw her face. I just talked with her on the phone. I guess these are just what I thought she'd look like from her voice. Come to think of it, she never told me exactly what her powers were. When I asked, she just said, 'Come out here into the water and I'll show you'—hey that's it! Professor, what if Kathy's power was to breathe underwater? No wonder you wouldn't be able to find her on the island! She could be hiding in the bay or the river even!)

[Excellent idea, Bobby, I'll start on that immediately. But tell me, if Ms. Wister was not the mutant with ice powers, who was?]

(Oh—Kathy said she was calling for a friend whose daughter was a mutant. Tracy—she said the girl's name was Tracy. Logan and I saw her three days ago when we got to the house.) Bobby leaned against one of the icy maids and laid his head against his arm. (We were too late, Professor. We should have known McKannen would send assassins or something. When we got there, her body was already stone cold.) Bobby looked up. (Wait a second—stone cold. REALLY cold. The coroners were arguing about it.)

[What is it, Bobby?]

(I'm not exactly sure, Professor. Now that I think about it, there were a lot of weird things about that fire. Everyone who was there remarked on it. The fire fighters recovered Tracy's body from the house after the fire, but it wasn't even burnt. Then Logan found that poor dog—yuck. The thing that bothers me most about it was the fact that the fire was out before the firefighters got there, but Tracy was still dead. I guess that's it right there: If I'd been there, I'd have put the fire out with my powers a LONG time before it gutted the whole house! Why didn't Tracy do the same thing? If her power was to make cold—)

—"no, scratch that"—

Bobby stopped in mid-thought, mouth open, as Kathy's voice whispered from his memory. SHE'D CORRECTED HERSELF. 

—"She absorbs heat. Her whole body is like a heat sink. The more heat she absorbs, the bigger her heat sink gets."— 

"Oh my God." Bobby spoke aloud.

[Bobby?] 

"Professor, SHE'S STILL ALIVE!!"

[Yes, yes, Bobby, we already determined that was possible—]

"No Professor, not Kathy—the GIRL! TRACY! She absorbs heat! THAT'S why the fire went out, THAT'S why her body didn't burn! She's still alive! WE'VE GOT TO FIND HER!!" 

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

That night, the early November wind lent the Hudson River a blanket of fog. The thick stuff rolled over Hart Island, transforming it into a surreal labyrinth of skeletal trees and innumerable crosses. Shadows danced and writhed in the moments when the moon peeked through the clouds. The island itself was a mass cemetery, reserved for those to poor to have a private lot on Manhattan proper. The island had also come to be the final resting place of countless John and Jane Does. Thousands of plain, simple crosses, each with only an eight-digit ID number to name their occupant, stood in neat, straight rows. Only an abandoned chapel and a few trees here and there broke the monotony. No one lived on the island, and the gravediggers and ferrymen never stayed after nightfall. The island was deserted.

Almost. 

(where am I?)

—fire—

(can't move)

—smoke—

(shut in)

—pain—

(no light)

—so much heat—

(can't breathe)

—PULL!—

"NOOOOOOO—!!" 

A circular wave swept through the ground. It contracted around the grave, indistinguishable from the others save for its extraordinary occupant. Icicles formed on the cross's arms, and the ID number was obliterated by frost. The very earth itself groaned as it froze solid for thirty feet in every direction. A thin coat of frosty ice crawled outward from the grave, shedding frozen mist. From within the rolling fog, snow began to swirl through the air. 

For a moment, all was still. The sound of the landlocked iceberg splitting in half echoed across the island like a gunshot. The crack itself was nearly six inches across and intersected the grave at a right angle. White vapor seeped from the fissure like blood from a wound. 

The vapor thickened and coalesced into a single white hand.  

A scream ripped through the night, a banshee's wail of pain and despair. A storm wind might have howled so, like a thing in torment, dying by inches, but not allowed to find release in death. A huge, billowing white cloud erupted from the fissure like a geyser. For a moment, the cloud hung suspended in the air, a roiling whirlwind of frozen fury. Slowly, the cloud sank back to the earth and condensed further, into the form of a huddled figure. 

She 'sat' before the ice-covered cross, her vaporous body wrapped in a misty burial shroud. Her gaze pierced the gloom as the moon slipped behind a cloud. To her sight, the terrain was gray, except the thirty feet or so around her, which was black. Her hands were the deepest black yet, and their shape blurred and trembled indistinctly with the breeze.

(I'm dead,) she thought numbly, (I'm dead, and now I'm a ghost.) The darkened hulk of the abandoned chapel caught and held her gaze. Her eyes followed the steeple, jutting into the sky. (A church.) Compelled by something she couldn't explain, the gaseous woman knew she should go there. (What better place for a ghost?)  

Rising, she discovered that she needed only to lean forward and think to move. Her incorporeal body trailed ice and frost as she floated past the graves. The rusted, twisted iron gates of the churchyard were no barrier; she simply floated through them. Although the large double-doors of the old church had weathered the years better, they too, could not keep her out. She bent down and 'dove' into the gap beneath the doors, her body rising again from the crawling mist on the other side. 

The interior of the chapel showed its age. Broken pews littered the floor, the pulpit had long ago fallen over, the windows were shattered, and tiny, unseen animals came and went freely. There was only one thing out of place. Sitting before the pulpit, glowing with heat, was a cat. It sat perfectly still, watching her, unconcerned. The ghost found herself drawn into those eyes, those deep, liquid eyes—

Suddenly she was not inside a rotting church, on a cold November night. She was not a floating spirit, but her old self again. She was standing at the edge of a plaza that she'd seen before, in front of McKannen Industries Main Office Building. The cat was sitting at her feet. A small crowd of what looked like reporters gathered around a tall man in an expensive suit. The cat watched intently. All around, there were emergency vehicles; police cruisers, an ambulance. News vans hung around the edges like vultures. The tall man was delivering a speech to the reporters as the coroners wheeled away a shrouded body on a gurney. 

"Ms. Gibbons served this company for fifteen long years; her death is a great loss. We discovered this note, explaining that she suspected a woman named Katherine Wister of kidnapping her child, Tracy. When police arrived at Wister's house, they found a scene of horror. Wister had set fire to the house with the girl still inside. The authorities recovered the Tracy's body, but it was too late. When Ms. Gibbons heard the news, she went to her office on the thirtieth floor, wrote this note, and—and threw herself from the window." The tall man's voice choked with grief, but his eyes twinkled with sadistic pleasure. 

She couldn't hear her heartbeat. Ms. Gibbons? SARAH Gibbons? Dead? (NO! It's not possible!) "You—you MURDERER! YOU KILLED HER!!" She leapt past the reporters, hands outstretched to strangle the suited man. But her hands found nothing, and she past right through his body. No one seemed to notice that she'd cried out or tried to kill this man. They didn't seem to notice that she existed. To her horror, she found herself hands and knees in a darkening bloodstain on the concrete, the chalk outline of a body drawn over the cracks on the ground.   

A reporter surged forward, brandishing a microphone like a weapon. "Mr. McKannen! Mr. McKannen, do the police have any information on the kidnapper?" 

"The prime suspect, Ms. Katherine Wister is still at large, and is also suspected of being a mutant, with connections to a mutant criminal element. If you see or hear anything about her, please report it to the NYPD immediately." McKannen took barely concealed glee in divulging that bit of news. 

(Aunt Kathy!) The image of the red haired woman being struck by lightning and thrown into the basement, followed by a searing blast from a flamethrower raced through her mind. 

"It is unfortunate that Ms. Gibbons was such an—excitable woman. She was a fan of theatre, which no doubt influenced her sad decision. In her mind, she was the greatest tragedy of all—" (Tragedy!) "—and for her, there was only one way to cope." McKannen shook his head. "Truly, truly tragic." 

Cold hatred boiled within her, ready to burst. Her own rage colored her vision with a red haze. The image of McKannen's face burned itself into her memory. Her gaze went to the mysterious cat. It returned her look then glanced to the side. [Look—] She followed with her eyes. Standing away from the crowd, near the entrance to an alleyway, were three people. 

(Smoky. Mike. Gremlin.) Their faces flashed before her eyes, their voices relaying in her mind. 

—"so pretty, such a waste"—

—"finish the job"—

—"burn that noisy bitch!"—

"I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU ALL!!" 

[Good.]

With those words, the plaza, McKannen, the three hired killers and the reporters disappeared, replaced by a flash of light and the image of a storefront. No, wait, it was a bar. The neon sign over the door read, 'The Salamander', Bar & Grill, and depicted a flaming lizard-like critter. Then the bar faded from view as well. [Start here.] 

She was back in the ruined church. The mysterious cat was gone. New determination flowed through her, new strength, new purpose that bordered on madness. (Now I know why I'm a ghost. I know why I can't rest. They'll all pay. I'll kill them all.)

Her fingers brushed the floor in front of the pulpit, where the cat had been sitting. With a small mental tug, the heat from the floor was sucked away. A thin sheet of ice one foot long and only six inches across blossomed beneath her fingers. It bubbled upward from the floor in a concave oval, the size of a face. The 'face' grew more and more distinct, the features matching themselves to the image in her mind. 

When it was finished, she gave a small jerk and it came away from the floor. Cradling the mask in both hands, her own misty substance swirled around it. A second later the mist cleared, and it was there again, a white vaporous form, like herself. She pressed it to her face with both hands, where it adhered. She tipped her head back and screamed into the waiting silence. 

"YOU WANT TRAGEDY, McKANNEN?! I'LL SHOW YOU TRAGEDY! TRACY GIBBONS IS DEAD! **_I AM TRAGEDY!!_**" 


	9. ICE ON FIRE

Ice on Fire 

"Hey kid, settle down. Yer makin' me nervous." 

Bobby threw Logan a sour look, but stopped pacing in front of the circular door, placing his back against the wall. He took a deep breath then blew it out again. The Professor had been inside Cerebro for only a half hour, not even a fraction of the time he'd spent looking for Wister, but Bobby was certain he'd find some sign of the Gibbons girl. 

"Sorry Logan. I know she's alive. She's gotta be. We just need to know where she is." 

Logan grunted, but didn't reply. 

"AAAAAAARRRRRRGH!!!"

"PROFESSOR!" 

Both Bobby and Logan jumped the door in the same instant, fully intending to tear it down with their bare hands to get to the Professor. Their fears were unfounded though, because a moment later, the door parted, revealing Xavier. He clutched his forehead with one hand, tears of pain streaming down his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, and it was obvious by the way his jaw worked that he was gritting his teeth. 

"Dear God. That poor child," Xavier looked up, but his eyes said that his mind was still partially absent, "such PAIN; so much HATE." 

"Professor? Are you alright?"     

Xavier's eyes focused suddenly, as though he'd only just noticed Bobby and Logan.

"Yes, I'll be fine." Xavier took a steadying breath. "The girl is alive, Bobby, just like you thought. I found her on Hart Island." 

Bobby blanched. (GOD! They buried her ALIVE!)

[Yes, that's right, Bobby. When she woke, her powers went out of control. She transformed into a gaseous state, and is now convinced that she is some sort of avenging spirit. The force of her pain and hatred ejected me from her mind.]  The Professor's gaze seemed to burn into Bobby's own, opening a path into his mind. [She's on her way across the bay, into the city. I know this much: she's going to—]

"Hey Chuck, you gonna include me in this little conversation, or can I just go and grab me a beer?" This time Xavier awarded Logan an irritated glance. A moment passed while he digested Logan's comment; his expression altered subtly. 

"Yes, as a matter of fact." To the conversation or the beer, Xavier didn't specify. "Do you know a bar called 'The Salamander'?" 

Logan blinked. "Yeah, I been there before. Usually when I'm lookin' for the scum o' the Earth."   

"Excellent. Because that is exactly why you're going there. One of the men who assaulted Ms. Wister's home is there presently, and young Ms. Gibbons is going to pay him a call soon." 

"All right, Professor. Logan, let's go!" Bobby started to turn, his mind already racing with possible ways for the coming confrontation to turn out.

"Bobby." 

The warning in Xavier's voice gave Bobby pause. 

"Be EXTREMELY careful. Before Tracy's mind rejected my presence, I felt something else there." 

[I think another telepath is guiding her.]

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *          

Logan pulled the barstool up to the bar nonchalantly, ordering another Budweiser. Bobby snorted, cradling his own drink in one hand. To anyone else, they were just two more guys in a seedy bar, looking to get drunk. Anyone sober though, would notice that the slimmer man hadn't so much as touched his rum-and-coke, while the other, already on his tenth beer, didn't so much as wobble. (Showoff.)   

"Any luck?" Bobby's voice was pitched low, and his lips barely moved, but Logan caught every word. 

"Not yet," Logan's voice was only fractionally louder, so Bobby's own, less sensitive ears, could hear him. "This's the right place, though." 

"How can you tell?" 

"The john smells like napalm."  

With those odd words, Logan tipped his beer back. Bobby just looked past him, to the restroom door. A short, pudgy man wearing greasy clothing came out. 

"That him?" 

"Yep." The empty beer can came back down to the bar. 

"You sure?" 

"The nose knows." 

(I asked for that.) 

"All right then," Bobby stood, setting his drink on the bar. Logan also stood, and the two made their way across the small room to the table where the short man sat. 

SSSZZZZZ—CRACK!!

Every light in the bar went out, throwing sizzling sparks everywhere. Several patrons complained, cursing loudly. 

"Logan, she's here!" Bobby's body began its transformation into living ice.  

"Whaddya talkin' about?"  The temperature abruptly plunged. Logan's breath streamed out before him, a plume of white vapor. "Oh."

"Hey, what the hell—?!" One of the patrons slammed headfirst into the front door, trying to leave, but the door didn't budge. The man yelped in pain and snatched his hand back as ice crawled slowly over the door, sealing it shut. The windows began to ice over as well.

"Bobby, whaddya—" 

"It's not me!" 

—tragic—

"Huh?"  Logan's claws snapped out of their sheaths. The voice was thin, spidery, and seemed to come from nowhere, out of the very air around them, which continued to grow steadily colder.  

"So—tragic—" The voice grew more distinct, identifiable now a young, female, and slightly rasping. And very, very, angry. 

Suddenly, the little man in the corner, who'd been getting more and more nervous with each passing moment, went three shades of pale. He jumped up and ran to one of the windows, banging on with his fists. When this failed to damage the ice properly, he grabbed a chair and tried frantically to smash his way out. 

"Hey you, where d'you think you're going?" Bobby grabbed the shorter man by one shoulder and spun him around. The short guy dropped the chair, his eyes going wide at the sight of Bobby's icy body. Instantly, the incoherent panic running through them was replaced with rage. 

"NO! YOU MUTIE BASTARDS! YOU WON'T GET ME AGAIN!" From his left sleeve, the fat little man produced a thin tube. "EAT THIS, YOU SONNUVA—!!" The obscene battle-cry was cut off by Bobby's scream as fire exploded across his stomach. That scream echoed from every corner of the room. Time slowed to crawl as Bobby fell to the floor, Logan began his berserker charge at the short man, and that terrible screaming went on and on. The heating unit mounted to the ceiling started to shake.  

Through tears of pain that froze on his cheeks, Bobby saw the boxy-looking thing. Mist had begun flowing out of it like water. A scant handful of seconds later, icicles bled out of the slots. They grew on every ventilation tube that ran across the ceiling. The heating unit shook like a thing possessed. Logan was howling like a wild animal. The man holding the mini-flamethrower was taking aim, oh-so-slowly, as Bobby tried to get up from the floor. Patrons were screaming and diving beneath tables.  

The weight of the ice growing inside the heater was too much. With a tearing screech, the whole thing broke loose from the ceiling. The sound of it shattering on the floor instantly demanded the attention of every person in the bar. They weren't disappointed. 

Mist poured down from the hole in the ventilation shaft, like a vaporous waterfall. Everyone present felt a bone-deep chill as a face emerged. Its eyes were contorted up and inward in an expression of incredible pain, and its mouth was twisted into an eternal rictus of anguish: the face of Tragedy.  The owner of that face followed, no less terrifying: a ghostly spectre wrapped in a shroud of pure, frozen mist. It exploded from the column of vapor, arms spread wide, billowing like and angry storm cloud. 

"Smoky—" 

"No! It's not fucking possible!" Smoky pointed the nozzle straight at the thing, arm outthrust like a lance. 

"Remember the mission, Smoky?" Mike's own words, spoken less than a week ago, returned to Smoky's ears in a heartbeat. There'd been only one other person who could have heard them. 

"BURN IN HELL, BITCH!" Smoky thumbed the hidden trigger hard.

"Tracy!" Bobby could only watch as a fresh tongue of bright orange flame flashed through the air. It struck Tragedy's vaporous form square in the chest. Bobby expected many things at once, in that instant: he expected the flame to tear through her insubstantial form. He expected the fire to sear the posters and photographs hanging on the wall behind her. He expected Tracy to die, as he almost had. But he'd forgotten her power. 

Tragedy's body sucked in the flame hungrily, expanding to almost double her original size in an instant. She let loose a triumphant howl as the temperature, already below freezing, plummeted again, blanketing everything in a fine layer of white frost. Snow and sleet swirled around the room. Bobby felt better immediately. Logan snapped out of his astonishment, to lash out in renewed fury. 

Even as Tragedy advanced and Smoky readied his next shot, Logan completed his aborted charge. Tragedy pulled up short in startlement as Logan dove across her path, slashing at Smoky. His claws bit into Smoky's wrist, completely severing hand and the tube strapped to it. But he didn't stop there; Logan continued onward, sliding over an ice-covered table and overturning it on his way. Smoky shrieked as blood fountained from his truncated arm, flowing freely with the flammable chemicals spurting from the cut hose. Tragedy resumed her advance. The shrieks stopped as Tragedy's white hand came down on Smoky's wrist, freezing the blood flow instantly, capping the stump in grotesque purple ice. Smoky gaped and gagged like a stranded fish, unable to draw the supremely frozen air into his lungs. 

"So pretty," Tragedy rasped, inspecting Smoky's frozen purple stump, "Such a waste." The words! The words were all the same as before, but now mocking, punishing. 

Smoky's mouth worked in terror, but no sound came out. The hideous mask closed in, stopping just a few inches away from Smoky's nose. 

"This is what you get for trying to fuck a mutant," Tragedy hissed, Mike's contemptuous words damning him.  

"Tracy!" 

At the sound of her old name Tragedy's gaze snapped around. The man made of living ice, the one called 'Bobby' stood up slowly, every movement bespeaking pain. The gaping hole over his stomach was beginning to mend in the deep cold of the room, but was still obvious nonetheless. His friend, the one called 'Logan' (With those neat claws, Tragedy thought), was just now stalking out from behind the table he'd turned over. All six of his claws were out. 

"Don't do this, kid." 

Smoky quietly slid one foot behind the other.

"Tracy, let us help you! Tell us where the disk is, and we can put them all away for life!" Bobby pleaded.

Frost crunched as Smoky slid his other foot behind the first. The tiny sound riveted Tragedy's attention back to the arsonist, the one who had killed her, and her Aunt Kathy. (Murderer.)

"Finish the job," Tragedy pronounced, not turning away. Smoky fell over backwards, whimpering in abject terror, his butt landing on the snow–covered floor. He crab-walked away, heedless of the damage he was doing to his frozen, torn left wrist. When his back came up against the wall, a small yellow stain began to spread against the inside of his pant leg.

The swirling mist and snow condensed then, merging into Tragedy's body, making it an almost solid white. She leaned forward and glided towards Smoky with the definite air of a hangman approaching the gallows. In that instant, she appeared more solid than she ever had in the last few minutes. Logan took his chance and sprang. Into a mistake. 

Logan's all-too-solid body crashed through Tragedy's gaseous form, cutting it in half for an instant, before the top rejoined the bottom. It was like leaping through liquid nitrogen. Accordingly, Logan's arms and skin froze over instantly; ice clogged his nose, his mouth and sealed his eyes shut. When he landed on the floor, he slid across the snow in that same position, ludicrously, like a toboggan. Tragedy regarded his prone form for a moment then continued her march. Bobby was torn between wanting to stop Tracy and wanting to help Logan. 

Friendship won over duty; Bobby knew Logan's healing factor would deal with the hypothermia, but he didn't know if it could deal with suffocation. He hobbled to Logan's side and knelt. Logan's arms were moving slowly in fitful, weakening circles. They did not respond below the elbow. His claws were frosted solid white all over, and sported backward-pointing icicles from the momentum of his leap. The ice on Logan's face was only a quarter-inch thick, so Bobby had no trouble cracking it away with his power. Logan sucked in a trembling breath and wheezed, "Stop her—!"  Smoky's terrified wail lent merit to the suggestion. 

Bobby turned just in time to see Tragedy lay her frozen white hands on Smoky's chest. His cry of terror choked off into a gurgle as his tongue expanded inside his mouth, forcing his head back. Icicles oozed from his ears, nose, and the corners of his mouth as his swollen purple tongue bulged out. Smoky's remaining hand was raised in a futile gesture of warding, the fingers curved forever into claws. Then ice began to droop from those as well. In less than a minute, the ice thickened, and Stephen 'Smoky' Bertrick's frozen corpse was entombed in a small but sturdy cocoon. Tragedy silently withdrew.

"Go," Logan growled. Bobby let him back down to the floor gently, even though he knew Logan's strength was already returning. He squared himself and faced Tragedy. She was already gliding silently back to the center of the room, where the broken ventilation shaft presented the only egress.  

"Tracy, please. I know about what happened to your mother. I talked with Katherine Wister on the phone. I know what's going on! Please, for God's sake, help us!" Tragedy stopped a single pace away. For a moment, she was completely still. When she looked up at him, her mask no longer appeared bent into bottomless hate. Now it seemed full of sadness and regret. She laid one ghostly white hand on his icy chest. She traced a line from his collarbone down to the edge of the burn, as if in apology. With a sigh, she turned away, still silent. 

"Tracy." She was already beneath the vent, and rising upwards. "Don't go." 

Tragedy whirled around, facing him once more. The features of her mask, frozen into eternal impassivity, hadn't moved, but now her posture broadcasted a warning. Whatever momentary softness she'd shown a kindred spirit had hardened. Her parting words were a frozen winter wind that promised a blizzard in the making. 

"Don't get in my way."  


	10. DISCOVERIES

DISCOVERIES

Tragedy flowed out of the bar's ventilation system through the frozen intake fan. A dull sense of satisfaction filled her after killing the short, greasy little arsonist. Yet now a million questions buzzed in her mind. Who were those people who'd tried to stop her? Tragedy shook her vaporous head, trying to think through an odd sort of mental fog.

Tragedy quickly looked both ways down the alley. It was still dark, but morning was coming fast. For the moment, no one would think she was anything but a cloud of steam venting from the sewers, but when the light increased, she would not be able to hide. Silently, trailing a thin sheen of frost, Tragedy floated down the alley and turned left into a dead-end behind one of the buildings.

The nebulous woman was still for a moment. The ice she had used to barricade the bar would hold the people inside for a while. A curious feeling overcame Tragedy – faintness, almost like being sleepy after eating a full meal. Fatigue, she decided, but spirits were not supposed to get fatigued. Dully, she looked down at her hands and felt, dimly, a trickle of muted surprise.

_I'm glowing. Why am I glowing? _

The little dead end alleyway was now suffused with a gentle blue-white light. Tragedy felt somehow as though _something_ was flowing out of her, but she could simply not put her finger on it. Studying her now-radiant fingers, Tragedy realized something else, something that, impossibly, sent a shiver down her frozen, misty spine.

Her temperature was rising. When she had first emerged from the frozen ground of the Hart Island cemetery, her own vaporous body had been solid black to her heat-sensitive gaze. Now, she appeared to herself as a dark gray haze. All around her, the cold brick walls and cement ground mocked her with their quiet cold, still black to her. What would happen to her if she warmed too much?

Looking up at the lightening morning sky, Tragedy fought back a stab of pure panic. Before she could feel more than that, an invisible force pulled her gaze back down to the ground. Sitting in front of her, as silent as any ice sculpture, was the white cat, its electric neon-blue eyes boring into her. The start of surprise was more pronounced this time, but Tragedy fell into those eyes, and the images that spilled from them.

A huge, monolithic skyscraper dominated her thoughts. A voice, as insubstantial as a shadow and as fleeting as a breeze, whispered into mind.

_The Omni-Seasons. You'll find him there. _

_Who? _

_The Gun Man. _

Then she was little Tracy again, trapped inside Aunt Kathy's house as a hail of bullets shredded the kitchen. The hellish rain was a deafening, impossibly fast, never-ending drum rattle.

She was pinned beneath Smoky the arsonist as the Gun Man looked down at her with eyes of granite, cradling that large-caliber automatic rifle. He was pure evil, a monster that hid his crimes behind a wall of blandness, with his forgettable face and dead eyes. In her mind, the Gun Man leveled the rifle down at her face, its muzzle large enough to walk down. There came a thunderous _KA-CHAK_ as he slid the bolt back and let it snap home again.

The vision faded from her mind, leaving in its wake newly revived, chilling hatred. Her flagging strength was bolstered by righteous fury, forcing all fear and doubt away. Tragedy felt, with bone-deep certainty, that this was the right thing to do. The arsonist had paid with his life. Now it was the Gun Man's turn. They would all pay. When Tragedy opened her eyes, the white cat, with its too-blue eyes and mental guidance was nowhere to be seen, without a trace to ever prove it had ever been there.

The dawn spilled into an empty alleyway, and no one noticed the thick layer of ice that cemented one particular manhole cover to the ground.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Bobby yelled over the roaring noise of the outboard motor.

_This is the only way Professor Xavier could think of to contact her_, Jean Grey said clearly into his mind from the helm. _Somehow, her mind has changed. He couldn't get a clear location on her, even with Cerebro. All he was able to tell was that she IS in the Bay, somewhere._

Bobby clung to the railing of Katherine Wister's sport fishing boat. Logan sat in one of the fishing chairs bolted to the deck, his feet propped up on the edge as the chill noon wind whipped through his thick black hair. He looked as though all he needed now was a cigar in one hand and a beer in the other, for all the world like he was on a leisure fishing trip.

"Chill, kid," he called nonchalantly, "If this Wister gal is as good as ya think she is in the water, she'll rise to the sound o' her own boat."

Silently, Bobby agreed, but he was not certain that they would find Katherine in time to stop Tracy from killing again.

_This should be good enough_, Jean told them, throttling down. The sound of the choppy waves slapping against the hull filled the silence. A moment later, Jean stepped out of the wheelhouse, her fiery red hair dancing in the breeze. She joined Bobby at the bow, carefully adjusting her steps to compensate for the rocking of the boat. Logan seemed disinclined to leave his chair.

"I should be able to contact her from here," she said, placing two fingers to her right temple.

"With your level of telepathy, you couldn't have done this from the mansion?" Bobby asked, his irritation showing. Jean awarded him with a cool look.

"I told you, the _Professor_ couldn't even do it, _with Cerebro_." At Bobby's chagrined look, Jean's tone softened. "Maybe it has something to do with how long she's been in the water, but Ms. Wister's mind has been altered subtly somehow. Professor Xavier said that it 'wasn't quite human anymore', whatever that means." Logan sat up suddenly.

"Red – look for dolphins." Logan returned both Jean and Bobby's confused looks with a shrug. "Call it a hunch."

"All right," was all Jean said. She turned slowly, her eyes closed, "sweeping" the bay.

Jean did indeed sense the presence of several dolphins in the bay, an unusual thing so late in the season. She did not, however, touch anything even remotely human beneath the water, so she settled on contacting the dolphins instead. Probing further, she found that their quicksilver thoughts kept slipping away from her whenever she tried to establish a firm rapport. It was like trying to get a solid grip on a handful of water. Their mental voices buzzed indistinctly, vaguely tinged with amusement at her efforts. Jean frowned in frustration.

"What is it?" Bobby asked.

"I found the dolphins," Jean said with a touch of surprise, "but I can't establish a link to any of them. They keep, well, 'slipping away' every time I try to get a hold of them." A dry, wheezing chuckle came from Logan's general vicinity. Both Jean and Bobby turned to stare at him.

"Ask 'em, Jean," he said with a wry grin, "Don't force it, just _ask_." Jean cocked her head to one side in pique, and complied.

_We're looking for our friend_, she broadcasted to the water, _this is her boat. Have you seen her? _

_Friend? Land-person? _The voices in Jean's mind sharpened into focus. They seemed high-pitched and fast, with odd background whispers, almost like they were carrying on several other conversations at once.

_Yes. _

_We see her. She swims with us, and plays with us. She is fun, for a land-person. _The high, squeaky voices modulated with what Jean could only describe as smugness.

_That is very good. We must speak with her. It is about a girl named Tracy._

_Land-person calf?_ The voices were colored with confusion for a moment.

_Yes. _

_We tell her._

"There _click-click _is…no _squeee _need."

Jean, Bobby, and even Logan jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It was definitely a woman's voice, but halting and punctuated with distinctly cetacean clicks and whistles. Floating just off the side of the boat, perhaps ten feet away, was Katherine Wister. Bobby stared at her in shock. Dimly, he realized what he was doing, but he simply could not look away.

Kathy had once looked perfectly human, and had sounded absolutely normal over phone with Bobby. An entire week beneath the waves had clearly changed her to the point where even those closest to her might have had trouble recognizing her. Her skin was a slick, pale blue-gray, possessing the exact smooth, rubbery texture as a dolphin's. Her red hair floated loosely in a nimbus around her shoulders, contrasting starkly with her new skin tone. Her hairline had receded, to make room for a high, slightly bulging forehead somewhat like a dolphin's melon. As she slowly treaded water, Bobby noticed that her hands, particularly her fingers, had lengthened, and were webbed all the way out to her fingertips. Her eyes, however, presented the most profound change of all. They were a solid, watery black, and through them, Bobby could see, without telepathy, the human intellect struggling to resurface through dolphin-like instincts. Bobby shuddered unconsciously.

"Tracy _squeee _…she's _squeee _alive?" Kathy's round black eyes got wider.

"Yes," Bobby said quickly, snapping out of his reverie, "and she's got full control of her powers too. Last night, she used them to kill the guy we think torched your house."

Somehow, the pitch and tempo of Kathy's clicks became 'menacing'. Her expression twisted in anger. Bobby knew that Kathy was angry, and that she approved of her young friend's actions. Time to try a new tack.

"Look," Bobby said, "tell us why these guys are after you. You mentioned something over the phone about the new CEO of McKannen industries."

Kathy's expression changed abruptly, and became devoid of all emotion.

"Yesss…Mc _click_ Kannen." Kathy held Bobby's gaze for a long moment. "_He_ sent those men after me _squeee_ …after us."

"But why?" Jean asked politely. Kathy turned to her.

"Hard to…explain," Kathy said with effort. Her brow furrowed in thought. "The disk _click_ …"

"You told me you hid it somewhere," Bobby supplied.

"Yesss…under the house…under the ice," Kathy said.

"No problem," Logan said, rising from his chair at last. When Kathy looked at him, he simply held out his fist. Three razor-sharp blades sprang out with a '_snick_'. Kathy nodded in approval.

"Kathy, do you know anything about who Tracy might go after next?" Bobby asked. Kathy shook her head.

"Dunno. There were three _squeee_ of them."

"Tell us about them, and try to picture them in your mind," Jean urged.

"The fire – the arsonist…" Kathy's eyes narrowed in concentration.

"He's dead. Tracy killed him." Logan said flatly. Kathy shrugged in the water.

"Gunshots…a sniper," Kathy continued. Jean immediately received the mental impression of sudden fear and bullets flying everywhere inside a small room. A kitchen?

"Did you actually see the gunman?" Jean asked. Again Kathy shook her head. Bobby gritted his teeth in frustration.

"There was a mutant," Kathy said, surprising them all. From Kathy's mind, Jean got the image of a distorted green face, insane yellow eyes and jagged orange teeth. The memory was associated with thunder, lightning, and pain.

"A mutant? Working with McKannen against other mutants?" Bobby asked incredulously.

"Yes," Jean interrupted, "He has some kind of electrical powers."

"He's the one that killed the dog," Logan growled.

Kathy let out a low, threatening train of clicks in a credible imitation of Logan's growl. An unspoken agreement passed between them. _I'll get that bastard for you_.

"Anyone else?" Jean asked.

"She _squeee_ is sure to go after Mc _click_ Kannen when she's _squee_ done with the others," Kathy said.

"The disk proves everything," she went on, as her speech began to improve. "It has all of Mc _click_ Kannen's plans on it. Give it to the FBI – that's what Sarah was trying to do."

"We will," Jean promised. "Will you come back with us? I'm certain we can find a place for you at our mansion." Jean smiled with real warmth. "You'd make one hell of a swimming instructor." The comment brought a smile from Kathy as well. It transformed her inhuman features into something almost – beautiful.

"I'd like _click_ that…but not yet. Not until this is over." Kathy turned to Bobby once more.

"Find her, Bobby," she said quietly, "Please. Take care of her. She's all I have left of Sarah now." Her plea was crystal-clear, and for a moment, the look in her eyes was completely human.

"I will. I promise." Bobby said solemnly.

Kathy held his eyes with hers for another moment then nodded. With a backward somersault flip and a flash of fins and webbed feet, Katherine Wister disappeared back into the Hudson Bay.

The man called Mike Vickers leaned his head back against the side of the spa-bath, enjoying the relaxing feel of the steaming water. The call girl he'd hired for the night sat across from him, sipping champagne from an expensive crystal glass. That last job had paid handsomely, even by Mike's standards. "Mike Vickers" was not his real name, of course – he'd given that up long ago in exchange for the numerous aliases any professional marker used. He'd come a long way since the beginning, though. Now, any one of his aliases could be synonymous with the phrase "death sentence". His fees were exorbitant, but Mike Vickers always found his mark, always finished the job.

When Douglas McKannen came to call, describing the mark as an ordinary-as-they-come secretary and her teenage daughter, Mike had almost laughed. He'd been paid to eliminate assassins, for chrissakes. Such an easy job was almost beneath him, but this McKannen was now the owner of a multibillion-dollar industry. Mike had just shrugged and given his price, and McKannen obligingly wrote the check. Easy money.

The end result was that Mike could now lie low and enjoy the fruits of his labors in the mega-plush Omni-Seasons Hotel. This particular suite was nearly the size of anyone else's house, taking up nearly half of the space on this floor. He wanted the best, paid for the best, and the Omni-Seasons gave him the best. No doubt.

The call girl swished her way across the spa-bath and sidled up to him.

"Hey handsome," she purred, "I always love it with the bubbles on." Mike smirked lewdly. Taking a handful of her hair just behind the ear, he drew her in close and crushed his lips to hers. She made a startled little mewl in her throat but submitted.

"Why don't you go and get us some more drinks, and I'll consider it," he said. It was not a request. The call girl swallowed and nodded. Dripping, she carefully stepped out of the tub onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Mike admired the way steam drifted from her naked skin. She shivered, despite the heat of the room and the steam in the air, and headed out the door towards the kitchen. Mike smiled to himself as he reached for the pile of towels on the small table next to the tub. He felt the reassuring solidity of one of his favorite pistols beneath the towels stacked there. Giving the handgun a fond pat, he once again relaxed against the spa-bath's ceramic side. Life was good.

In the kitchen, the call girl looked for the ice bucket, still shaking from the rich man's kiss. It bothered her how much that kiss had bothered her. She was being paid a lot, sure, and she'd done similar tricks like this, but this guy just screamed 'dangerous'. He might have an average face, but his body was toned and muscular, like an athlete. She shivered again as she took another champagne bottle from the ice bucket. Just thinking about those lips on hers, the look in the rich man's eyes, made her cold all over. The call girl shivered again as another deep chill washed over her. Something was wrong. It was getting cold in here – really cold.

The call girl grew irritated. This was the freakin' Omni-Seasons after all! The heating and AC systems never went out here – the hotel couldn't afford little inconveniences like that, because it would ruin their reputation. As she looked around for the thermostat control, the call girl noticed something like fog crawling down the wall. Following it up the wall, she spotted the vent above her pouring out vapor.

As she watched, icicles began to bleed out of the vent, spreading down the wall like drool from a gap-toothed mouth. Even in the dim light, the call girl could see the mist clearly – because it was glowing. Rising fear combined with the dropping temperature, and the naked call girl began trembling uncontrollably. There was…something…in there, in that glowing blue mist, she just knew it, and it was looking at her. A face emerged from the vapor, contorted into an eternal grimace of grief and sorrow. The champagne bottle shattered on the kitchen floor as the call girl screamed.

Tragedy flowed from the vent just like she had in the bar. This time however, her temperature was much higher, relatively speaking. The pale light she'd been leaking all day had eased the feeling of drowsiness, as well as lowering her temperature somewhat. A day beneath New York, wandering the dark, cool sewer tunnels had done her good. She just hoped it would be enough to suck away the last drop of warmth from the Gun Man's body.

Tragedy swept the suite with her infrared vision. It was all the uniform dark gray of room temperature, the surrounding furniture an indistinct blur. The woman before her glowed starkly white, and Tragedy could still see lingering, invisible traces of steam wafting up from her. The woman was nothing. Ignoring the way the call girl shrieked in terror, Tragedy followed the pale gray 'footprints' of residual heat on the floor into the master bedroom, then on to the bathroom, where a larger heat source waited.

The first scream snapped Mike out of his pleasant doze. His body sprang from relaxed to ready alertness in an instant. In the next instant, his hand was wrapped around the .357 magnum Desert Eagle beneath the towels. Movement in the doorway caught his eye and he drew a bead on it automatically. What he saw made his jaded eyes widen in shock.

Floating in the doorway was a luminous figure, wrapped in a white burial shroud. Mike recognized the mask it wore – the Tragedy mask of classical Greek drama. The figure radiated intense cold, causing the invisible steam inside the bathroom to condense into white fog. The apparition advanced into the bathroom, its mask sweeping back and forth, as though looking for something it couldn't quite see. Even through the thickening fog, Mike could see it clearly for the soft blue glow it gave off. It spoke in a raspy, spidery whisper, like a girl's voice gone raw from screaming.

"_Mike…_"

The mercenary started in surprise, causing a small splash of water against the side of the tub. The Tragedy figure's gaze whipped around to the tub. It began to advance again, vaporous hands outstretched, calling out a challenge in that hoarse whisper.

"Finish the job," she taunted. Mike's eyes narrowed. He _always_ finished a job.

The Desert Eagle reported sharply three times. Each time Mike was rewarded not with blood, but with a small _hss_, followed by frozen lead shattering against the far wall. The bullets passed cleanly through her as though she was a cloud.

Tragedy could hear him splashing out of the huge bathtub, but the ambient heat in the room made it hard for her to see. Contrary from the living room and kitchen, the bathroom was a swirl of light grays and soft whites, the largest solid mass being the bathtub. The three gunshots had been brief, bright flashes of light against masses of warm air. A second large white mass separated from the tub. Tragedy reached out for him, but the steam blurred his movements into a barely perceptible ripple. Before she could get a clear fix on him, Mike had fled past her into the master bedroom.

Mike almost slipped on the thin layer of ice that had condensed and frozen onto the bathroom floor. He had to control his breathing to keep from hyperventilating. He'd dealt with mutants before. It was just a matter of finding out how their mutations worked and what hurt them the most. Bullets were clearly useless against this one. Mike ran to the side of the bed and threw his duffle bag of weapons onto it, unrolling it with practiced efficiency. Guns, mostly, strapped to the inside of the canvas. One survival knife, and a dozen throwing knives. All useless. Mike's hand settled on one of his last resort weapons, a stun gun; the short, blocky handle ended in a pair of straight prongs that would deliver a debilitating electrical shock to the target. Mike didn't know if it would be of any use against the mist-girl, but it was the only left he could try.

Mike's thoughts broke off as he registered the cold breeze blowing onto his bare back. Whipping around, he saw the masked apparition advancing on him once more. Arms outstretched, fingers curled into claws, moaning like an angry ghost, it was a sight to terrify a normal man. But Mike Vickers was not a normal man. Snarling, Mike crushed his thumb down on the firing button and viciously stabbed out at it, connecting with its left hand.

The result was more than satisfying. Mike's hand sizzled slightly as the intense cold of Tragedy's touch froze the top layer of skin, but her entire left hand and arm briefly flashed with arcs of blue electricity, then exploded into ribbons of idly swirling vapor. It screeched shrilly in pain and retreated, floating a few feet towards the bathroom.

Tragedy did not know that such pain and agony could exist. For an instant, her arm had burned with fire that not even her frozen state could absorb. Then she had lost control of her own shape, and the arm had simply disintegrated. She clutched her shoulder at the point where her arm had been and glared furiously at the Gun Man in shock and hatred. How _dare_ he – ?! Tragedy regained her composure quickly. She still had control of the rest of her body. With just a little concentration, mist from the main portion of Tragedy's body flowed back out of her shoulder joint, reforming the arm, even as the Gun Man looked down in astonishment at the puny weapon in his hand. She glanced down at the new hand for a second, flexed it experimentally and returned her gaze to her foe.

Mike barely concealed a smirk of sadistic glee. Oh, this was rich! The _least_ lethal weapon of his entire arsenal would hurt this ghost-bitch even worse than the biggest caliber bullet! Mike settled into a fighting stance, holding the stun gun out in front of him like a large knife. The mist creature tried to circle around him once or twice, but it was clear she did not know how to properly fight hand-to-hand. With a few feints, Mike confirmed that he had hurt her badly, judging by the fear in her jerky movements. Bobbing and weaving, stabbing out again and again like a fencer, Mike maneuvered her back into the bathroom, a dead end with no exits.

For the first time since she had arisen in the cemetery, Tragedy knew a moment of all-encompassing panic. This was not supposed to happen! She was a ghost, an avenging spirit! How was it possible that a _normal human_ could hurt her?! The Gun Man had turned the tables on her, forcing her back again and again, jabbing with his wicked shock weapon. Tragedy realized too late that she had just backed across the threshold of the bathroom, where she would not be able to pinpoint the Gun Man's position, but even worse, where she had no room to dodge aside from the Gun Man's next thrust.

Mike snarled out loud in fury as his next thrust caught Tragedy squarely in the chest. Her scream of agony seemed endless. There was a brilliant explosion of light, so bright Mike could not look directly at it. The mutant's scream ceased.

The only sound in Mike's ears was the steady drip-drip of condensation from the bathroom ceiling falling onto the melting ice of the tile floor. Mike's chest heaved and his heart thundered in his chest. Multicolored dazzle-spot danced before his eyes while he shook his head to clear them away. The mercenary blew a long, rattling breath and almost relaxed. Mike jerked back into his fighting stance as a strangled sob came from the bathroom floor.

Tracy stared at her hand in shock and denial. It was cold, as it always had been, but it was _solid_. She was _alive_. It was impossible! She had died in the fire, been buried, and had risen from the grave to avenge herself and her mother! But harsh reality could not be denied. Tracy sat on the hard tile floor, _felt_ the throbbing pain where Mike had shocked her, _felt_ the sheet wrapped about her, _felt_ the mask of ice on her face grow slick as the heat of the room started to melt it. She looked up at Mike, seeing him in actual, normal color, as fear rose up and threatened to consume her with a single, primal thought: she was alive again, solid again, and _this man could kill her for good_.

As Mike's vision cleared, he saw a small figure huddled on the bathroom floor. She was wrapped head to toe in a white burial sheet, now wet from the water and melting ice on the floor. The Greek Tragedy mask on her face was clearly made of ice, and also beginning to melt. The skin of her hands was as stark white as the sheet swathed around her. When she looked up and saw Mike slowly advancing on her, she scrabbled backwards across the floor, using both hands and feet. The sudden jerking movement caused the ice mask to dislodge from her face and skitter away.

Mike stared at her in shock and denial. It was impossible! But it could not be anyone else. The rosy pink eyes staring at him set in that white oval face could belong to no one else. The Gibbons kid. Mike's rage mounted as the pride of his hard-won reputation suddenly washed away his vision in a red haze. It was not _fucking_ possible! Mike Vickers _never_ missed his mark! He _always_ finished to job! There was no way this little fucking bitch could have survived that fire! On top of that outrage, this little mutant bitch had tried to kill him. Him! _Mike Vickers_, the best of the best!

Tracy's face twisted in abject terror as the Gun Man suddenly threw his stun gun to the floor and rushed at her. Her arm came up in automatic and futile defense, but he just grabbed her wrist and savagely yanked her up to her feet. His other hand struck like a snake, his fingers wrapping around her throat in a vice-like grip. Gagging, Tracy grabbed desperately at his wrist, and he let go of her other hand so he could strangle her with both of his.

"You little _fucking bitch_! _No one_ gets away from me! _NO ONE!_ I _always_ _finish the job!!_" Mike screamed at her, shaking her back and forth as he squeezed the breath out her. Without realizing it, Mike was slowly turning, turning back towards the bedroom. In a ludicrously detached part of her mind, Tracy knew that if he brought her back in there, he would throw her out the huge bay windows if he didn't just strangle her to death first.

Tracy's vision was beginning to blur, and image of Mike's face, distorted and crimson with rage, went out of focus. As the lights behind his face dimmed from her view, Tracy's mind retreated from the pain and the crushing need for oxygen. Trapped in her own mind, outside of time it seemed, Tracy's life flashed out before her, like a photo album.

_Flash_. Playing with her mother in the apartment as a child, always at night.

_Flash_. Playing with Gunny at Aunt Kathy's house.

_Flash_. Working on schoolwork at home, Mom coming home from work.

_Flash_. Sitting in Aunt Kathy's basement, falling into the power; falling into the cold, pulling, pulling all the heat from the ground into her body.

Tracy's eyes snapped open, the bursting capillaries staining her pink eyes bloody red. Sensation only partially returned, but it was all she needed. Without entirely knowing how or why, Tracy found the frozen void within her empty of heat energy, a bottomless abyss yearning to be fed. Her slackening grip tightened convulsively around Mike's wrists. Rage and determination merged with terror and pain on her face.

_Pull_.

Through the mad red haze, Mike noticed something wrong. His victim, so close to dying a second before, suddenly jerked in his grip. That wasn't unusual, and neither were the red eyes. He'd seen both in victims that he'd strangled before, but she wasn't getting weaker. She was getting stronger – and colder. Mike's mind went blank for an instant in confusion. When sense reasserted itself, Mike realized what was happening and frantically tried to pull his hands away. He jerked and twisted, but his hands had already lost all feeling as frosted ice formed over his numb fingers and cemented them in place.

"_Noooooo –!_" Mike screamed as Tracy's body started to shed fine white mist.

With a sudden _whoosh_, Mike jerked backward as Tragedy regained her

incorporeal form. Hellish cold radiated from her, and the slightly wavering outline of her face could not disguise the murder in her eyes. The ambient heat of the steam disappeared from the air, and the melting ice on the tile floor froze over once more.

Mike backpedaled madly, but he had already turned completely around to face the bathroom door. His frozen hands waved before him, but he could not pull them apart to use his arms for balance. He lost his footing on the treacherous ice and fell, tumbling backwards to smash through the thin layer of ice that had formed over the hot tub. Mike's head shot up, splashing stray chunks of ice around, sputtering. He never had the chance to scream, for Tragedy was already upon him.

Without hesitation, Tragedy plunged her gaseous hand into the hot water. Instantly the water ceased to steam. Mike only had time to get his hands out of the water, curled forever into a deathgrip, before the merciless cold closed in on him. A thousand needles, daggers of pain stabbed at every part of his body, penetrating into his very core. Mike's mouth opened to scream, but the frozen water crushed the air from his lungs. Then the very warmth of his body was gone, sucked away suddenly by a void as cold as space. Icicles drooped from Mike's dead fingers and white frost settled over the bathtub before Tragedy pulled her hand away.


End file.
